


THE BLACKBIRD SINGS AGAIN

by sfmpco



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Moriarty - Freeform, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sherlock Holmes and Developmental & Mental & Physical Issues, rogue MI6 agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 16:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 81,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3215453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfmpco/pseuds/sfmpco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As punishment for the murder of Charles Augustus Magnussen, Sherlock is sent on a black ops MI6 mission that will likely result in his death in six months.  Called back and pardoned within a few minutes, Sherlock now must face the impossible: that Moriarty might somehow still be alive.  He must battle his own inner demons and fears as he spirals into a terrifying journey to solve the mystery while at the same time a first attempt at an intimate relationship causes his private life to unravel beyond his control.</p><p>This novel is a direct sequel to the 9th BBC SHERLOCK episode, "His Last Vow."</p><p>This is book #1 in the BLACKBIRD series.</p><p>A new Sherlock Holmes novel based on the BBC1 SHERLOCK series starring Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_The East Wind. A terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth._

\- Sherlock Holmes, "His Last Vow"

_There's an east wind coming all the same. Such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it's God's own wind nonetheless, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."_

\- Sherlock Holmes, "His Last Bow"

The East Wind had come, and it went by the name of Sherlock Holmes. The small private jet Sherlock had taken off in for exile as punishment had done an about-face only four minutes into the journey. While officially he was leaving on an undercover assignment in Eastern Europe, it was technically exile, a "hardly merciful" solution as Lady Smallwood had stated. He was never meant to return to his beloved Britain, and the undercover assignment which would likely result in his death in six months would probably insure that he would indeed never see his homeland again. However the jet had returned almost immediately and all was pardoned to deal with the unthinkable: the potential that James Moriarty was somehow alive. Yet even Sherlock knew that it could not be possible for his old nemesis to be alive.

It had been just over three years since Sherlock's fake suicide in the fall from Bart's roof ledge. The illusion of his suicide had been kept up long enough for pictures and body identification, blood typing, DNA testing - everything that was needed to verify his death before he went undercover for two years. Moriarty's body had been brought down from Bart's roof. Sherlock had been shaking Moriarty's hand when Moriarty had put a gun in his own mouth and had blown the back of his head off. Instantly dead. It had been horrifying and shocking, but Sherlock knew for certain that he was indeed dead. He had seen and witnessed the evidence with his own eyes. Not only had he seen it, but the body had been positively verified as dead by Molly, Lestrade, John and a host of other Scotland Yard, forensics and medical experts. His was not a death that was faked or could have been faked. His head wound was not recoverable.

Only now when Sherlock was being exiled for murdering newspaper magnate Charles Augustus Magnussen, did Moriarty's face appear on television screens all over the country with the taunt, "Did you miss me?" Sherlock had immediately watched it on the plane once he was made aware of it. However, he had no illusions that Moriarty was alive. The image was a still image with a digital voice behind it and a slight, warped movement of the lips that never opened. Someone didn't want him leaving Britain and was using Moriarty's image to taunt him and the government into keeping him. The fact that it occurred on the day that Sherlock was being sent away told him that whoever it was had access to the information that Sherlock was being sent away. Someone knew about the government mission and probably the true reason behind it. His mind already had two scenarios: that there was a double agent in MI6 that had leaked the information to one of Sherlock's many enemies, or that one of those many enemies simply had access to Mycroft's top government officials and knew what would keep Sherlock in the country. Sherlock even toyed with the idea that Mycroft had rigged the entire thing although he relegated that to being an unlikely scenario. Regardless, someone was trying to get his attention, and he was determined to find out who. He didn't like not knowing.

The jet touched down and moments later taxied to where it had only been shortly before. Sherlock disembarked, and a healthy gust of wind blew his coat open as if on cue. He found Mycroft standing almost where he'd left him.

"Welcome back, brother mine." Mycroft said dryly.

Sherlock gave him a slight nod. "Mycroft."He hesitated a moment then added almost under his breath, "Thank you."

"As I said before, you have utility closer to home."

"Utility." Sherlock lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He held his breath and allowed the nicotine to rush his system, and he released his breath slowly. He looked over at John and Mary. She was nearly ready to deliver. "They're going to make me the godfather, you know," he said tersely. "And here I thought I'd escaped that fate. Thanks for that too."

"I told you once that caring was a disadvantage. So do Britain and the world a favor this time and try not to get your heart involved. It only ends badly." Mycroft said.

Sherlock smirked a little, dropped his cigarette to the ground and snuffed it with his shoe. "Involved." He scoffed. "Found yourself a goldfish yet?" He caught a glimpse of Anthea in the back seat of the car. "Ah, I see you've still got that one." He then began to walk towards John and Mary as the wind continued to blow open his coat. He would catch a ride back to Baker Street with them.

Mycroft watched Sherlock get into the car with the Watsons and drive away. He knew that Sherlock's heart was losing its ability to remain detached and uninvolved, and he blamed that entirely on the friendship with John Watson. Now with a potential new threat to national security via the Moriarty taunt, that made him quite concerned about Sherlock's capability to solve the problem. Anthea stepped out of the car then.

"Sir, do you want his surveillance status upgraded again?" she asked.

"No need," Mycroft said dryly. "He's micro-chipped. We know where he is 24/7."

Sherlock was still reeling from his heart being ripped first by thinking he was being separated permanently from those he loved dearly and second by now being yanked back as if he were a dog on a leash. He had worked so hard on the plane to control his emotions, and he had nearly lost it when he approached John and tried to say with a bit of excitement, "The game is on again." But his words felt hollow and contrite, and his ride back to Baker Street with the Watsons had been one of mostly silence. None of them had known what to say. It would seem as if they should have been overjoyed, and inwardly all of them were, but the grief of nearly having lost him again was clouding everything.

He had asked them not to come up to the flat because he needed to be alone and to sort out what had just happened. He had made a partial stab at packing up the flat before leaving on the jet. All of his things were supposed to be sent to storage. Somehow he just hadn't been able to complete the task. Mycroft had promised to send a crew in to finish the packing, but that hadn't happened yet.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson's surprised voice brought him out of his shock. "You're back?"

"Tea please," he said simply. When he realized she hadn't moved, he turned to her and faked a smile and light tone. "Change of plans! Turns out I'm not going away after all. I do hope you haven't thrown out all my specimens."

Still she didn't move. It was the same awkward silence he had experienced with Mary and John. Everyone's hearts had been torn a little, and Mrs. Hudson's was no different. He dropped his fake smile and shuffled his feet like a guilty child before saying apologetically, "Mrs. Hudson, this flat is my home, and it will always be my home if you'll continue to bear with me as a tenant."

"Of course, dear," she said.

He kissed both her cheeks and touched her face tenderly. "Now, about the tea."

There were tears in her eyes. She loved him as a mother loves a son. He hadn't told her the details of why he had had to leave, just that it was permanent and that he likely would never see her again. She patted his cheek, but she didn't say anything else. She needed time to process too. He gave her a hug and she stifled a little sob. "Right. I'll just get the tea then, Sherlock. You'll be wanting biscuits too."

Sherlock furiously blinked back his own tears as she left, and he shut the door behind her. He looked around again, and he was overcome. The grief he had been unable to show on leaving his friends and homeland forever and the relief to be returned now flooded his entire being. From a death sentence in undercover work to a new chance at life all in the space of a few minutes: it was difficult to process the gravity.

Mrs. Hudson did not bring his tea right away. Even before she had walked down the stairs to her flat, she could hear his heavy sobbing, and she allowed him the space and time he needed. Her motherly instinct wanted to go up and comfort him, but she had come to know that he was the most private person she knew, and she respected his need for privacy.

* * *

The televised Moriarty taunt had gone on for one hour before all programming resumed normal as if nothing had happened. However, #Moriartylives, #Moriartyisalive and various other hash-tag versions took over the internet like a firestorm. It was repeated on all the news channels, and one channel even stopped all programming to begin to air continuing investigative coverage of the event. The over-saturation of media had begun, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

Under heavy police guard, Moriarty's casket was exhumed within twelve hours, which put it in the middle of the night. It was not the ideal time to do it, but the seed of doubt had been sown in the nation, and the contents of his coffin had to be verified as quickly as possible. Media trucks were parked nearby and hundreds of the general public were kept at bay behind barricades. It was a circus, and Sherlock found it quite irritating and intrusive to the work. Sherlock wished John were there, but Mary was having some contractions and John did not feel he could leave her.

Even before the digging began, Sherlock carefully inspected the ground at the grave for evidence of tampering. The clues were inconclusive, however, made even more difficult by recent heavy rains which had left the grave site soggy.

Tenting was set up around the grave to allow for privacy of the investigative team, and Sherlock watched unemotionally as the casket lid was cleaned of dirt and debris.

“Everyone shut up and stay out of my light.” Sherlock said sharply.

Sherlock walked slowly around the casket and visually inspected it before pulling out his magnifying glass to take a closer look at all the seals. Although he knew for certain that Moriarty was dead, that didn't preclude the fact that someone could have stolen his body in an attempt to pull off a ruse of him being alive. Every nick and scratch was suspect., but he was also looking for evidence that it could possibly be booby-trapped with a bomb. That would be like Moriarty. He felt around the edges of the seal, but there was nothing unusual. He stepped back and nodded that he was done, and the casket was opened. There was a collective gasp among all who witnessed the opening.

Sand. No body. Just sand, and probably the equivalent of Moriarty’s weight.

Lestrade turned sharply to his team. "I saw him laid out in the morgue with the back of his head blown off, and that was after he’d been dead for hours. We had guards at the morgue! I want to know where that body is! And I want to know how this happened!”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened and he cursed under his breath. But it was not only sand. Laying on top of the sand was an envelope with Sherlock's name on it. Sherlock pulled a pair of tweezers from his kit and carefully removed the envelope. There was a slight tremor in his hands. It was not from fear, but he could not stop it. He did not, however, linger too long with it in his hands. The brown envelope was inexpensive and nondescript, the kind that would come from any stationers, and the writing on top was with a wide, black felt-tip marker. The lettering style was bold and likely belonged to a man. It could, in fact, be Moriarty's own handwriting. He'd have to check it against known samples. He tucked it inside his coat.

Sherlock turned to Molly and said sternly, “You laid him out.”

“Yes.” She said. “I even had to remove the rest of his brain because it was falling out anyhow.”

“And what happened to his body afterwards?” Sherlock took a step closer to her, and there was something almost accusatory in his stare.

He had never spoken to her in that tone before, nor did he have a right to. She stood up a little taller and met his gaze squarely and replied firmly, “It was released to the family after forty-eight hours for burial. Standard procedure.”

“Were you there when it was released? Did you personally check the body bag? You of all people knew there was nothing standard about this!” He scolded her as if she had not done her job properly. She pursed her lips and glared at him, but he had already moved on. “So no one actually saw his body in this casket and stayed with it the whole time until it was put into the ground.” He turned to Lestrade with that same accusatory stare. “You let him slip through your fingers. You should have had a police guard on him at all times. All times!”

“Sherlock, the man was dead. Self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. The case was closed.” Lestrade said firmly. He did not like being accused of not doing his job either.

“Consider it re-opened.” Sherlock said.

“What’s that?” Molly pointed to something in the sand.

Sherlock turned back to the open casket. He had missed the shiny bit of something mostly buried in the sand because he’d been so focused on the envelope. He gently blew the sand away from the item to reveal a watch. Platinum and encrusted with diamonds. It was a very high-end Breitling. Although modern it had an old-fashioned face with minute and hour hands. It was still operating and the time was accurate. There was simply no way the watch could have still been running after over 3 years. Its battery would have long since died. So who put the watch there? Was it even the same watch? Was this even the same casket or a replacement? Was Moriarty ever in this grave?

He stepped into his mind palace to review the information from Bart's roof when Moriarty had shot himself. It had all happened so quickly, and he'd been in such shock from it that the details were slightly distorted. He couldn't remember seeing a watch at all. Moriarty's coat sleeves had been too long. He had only seen blurred flashes of the band during those insane moments. "I'll just be needing this too." He removed a pen from his pocket and gingerly looped it through the watch band to lift it out, but the moment he pulled it up, a delicate thread that was a attached to it that ran beneath the sand broke, and instantly a digital timer lit up beneath the casket ceiling fabric. A five-second countdown began.

“Run!” Sherlock yelled, and everyone scrambled practically on top of each other to get away. The shock wave of the explosion sent them all to the ground hard, and he had barely enough time throw his arm around Molly and pull her in close before they both were knocked off their feet. The blast set off a fireball in the casket as if the entire thing were highly flammable.

Hot sand rained down on them as did flaming pieces of casket debris, and Sherlock covered his head, trying to tuck himself deeper into his coat while also covering Molly with his coat as best he could. The heat was intense, and it was a few moments before he dared to look back at the casket. The blast had blown down all the tenting, and now the news crews could get an inglorious look at the carnage.

Sherlock stood up and helped Molly to her feet. “All right?”

She nodded and brushed herself off. She had slight abrasions on her forehead and cheek, and she was trembling a little. “I will be.”

Sherlock turned his attention back to the scene and watched as everyone else got back to their feet. Except for a few minor cuts and scrapes, no one was seriously injured. Lestrade turned to his crew. “Someone find some fire extinguishers now!”

“Up to his old tricks,” Sherlock said grimly. “Well, this just got very interesting.”

Sherlock made his way to the labs at Barts. His first order of business was the envelope. He dusted it for fingerprints, but as he suspected, there were none. Whoever left it was too clever for that.. He held the envelope up to the light. There was some sort of note inside, but he couldn't read it. However, the envelope did not appear to be booby-trapped.

Molly and Lestrade looked on, but he yawned, then tried to shake himself a little to stay awake. Molly was also struggling to focus. It was just past 4:00 A.M., and it had already been a long day. Sherlock didn't look at them but could feel the questions burning on him. "Ask ."

"Why were you leaving us for good and why are you back just as quickly? Not that I expect you to tell." Lestrade said. "But if you ever do-"

"Scalpel." Sherlock said simply.

Molly looked around for a moment, then found the one Sherlock had already set out on the counter top. "Look, Sherlock, if you ever get in a tight fix and need help, you know you can count of me. My department is at your disposal. Always has been." Lestrade insisted.

Sherlock swallowed hard. He was still feeling a little emotionally raw and was determined not to show it now. "I know. Thank you." He said simply.

Sherlock took the scalpel and gently began to slice open the envelope with surgical precision. He gently blew a puff of air into the envelop to force it open, visually examined the contents, then used a pair of tweezers to remove the contents - a single, folded sheet of paper. The paper was dusted for fingerprints and again, none were found. The note appeared to be blank, but Sherlock examined the surface under angled light, then under a black light. The words nearly jumped out at him.

MISS ME? MURDERER. I.O.U.

"Bugger!" Lestrade muttered in frustration. "What's it mean, 'murderer'?"

"I.O.U. Just like three years ago," Molly added.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed then began to burn with fury. The casket’s tampering was recent due to the addition of the word "murderer." Someone intimately connected with both Magnussen and Moriarty was trying to draw him out, and he wasn't happy with the revelation. If this mysterious person knew these intimate clues, what else about Sherlock's private life was at stake? "Nothing. It's just baiting." Sherlock said tensely.

"What about the watch?" Molly asked.

"Ordinary." It wasn't at all ordinary, but he didn't want to discuss it further until he had finished examining and researching it.

"That's a very expensive watch, Sherlock, and you know it. It's hardly ordinary." Lestrade said. "Don't damage it. It's police evidence."

"Watches have been keeping time since they were invented. There's hardly anything extraordinary about that. Different packaging, but it's still a watch." Sherlock said coolly.

"This from a man who doesn't know the Earth revolves around the Sun." Lestrade chuckled a little and Sherlock groaned. He would never live down that faux pax. Lestrade yawned again. "Look, I've got to get some sleep or I'll be worthless tomorrow. Today, I mean. I'll call you later, and trust me, we’ll find that body." He gave Sherlock a slight pat on the back. He didn't see him wince.

Lestrade left, and Molly looked up at the clock on the wall.

"My shift starts in five hours. I have to go too," Molly said. "You'll be all right by yourself?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" he responded bluntly, almost coldly.

"Because you don't look all right. By the way, thank you for what you did for me tonight.”

He both liked and disliked that she seemed to be able to see right through him. He didn't like being transparent to anyone. "I could use a coffee," he finally said. He then added, "Please."

She brought him a coffee and watched him quietly for a few moments as he meticulously examined the watch. She could see his tremor. He could feel her gaze burning on him, and he finally managed, "Thank you."

She hadn't been waiting for his gratitude. She had been waiting for eye contact, but he didn't make it. He was too focused on his work and had mentally shut her out. She turned and left, but the moment the doors to the lab shut, he looked up in her direction.

Alone, he let out a terse sigh of discomfort as he stretched his back, but that wasn't the cause for the discomfort. It was the microchip. It had hurt hellishly when implanted, and it still bothered him.

Murder. He had murdered Charles Augustus Magnussen in cold blood before Mycroft, John Watson, and at least a dozen agents, and as punishment was exiled and sent on an undercover death mission in Eastern Europe. All the agents who went on death missions were micro-chipped but always in the upper arm. For British government, however, having Sherlock chipped would also insure that he could not re-enter the country, should he miraculously survive his mission, without their knowledge. Satellite tracking would insure that. The doctor was about to inject the chip into Sherlock's arm, but Mycroft had stopped him. "Not there. He'll cut it out himself the first chance he gets. Put it where he can't get to it."

Sherlock had wanted to accept the MI6 assignment with more dignity, but sensing his own mortality suddenly rushing to him within six months and the loss of his beloved homeland, he had fought back. It took four strong men to hold him down while the Doctor had implanted the microchip into his upper back near his left shoulder blade as Mycroft watched. "For your own good, brother dear." Mycroft's words still haunted him. With such a dangerous mission, and with almost no chance of getting out alive, the chip had been more for body recovery rather than tracking, and Sherlock knew it. Once the chip stopped moving, they would know he'd either been imprisoned or killed, with the highest probability being the latter.

There was no chance to escape anywhere in the world now, and if he had deserted his assignment, MI6 would certainly have hunted him down and killed him. If the chip were destroyed while on mission, agents would be sent to find him, and if he were found alive, their orders were to shoot to kill. If he set foot on British soil again, he would be shot. However, he had been called back to London within minutes of leaving for his assignment, and all was pardoned. Now he was determined to rid himself of the offending item although he had not been officially sanctioned to do so. The trick was how to do it and not raise suspicion.

* * *

The explosion and flaming casket were all over the news first thing in the morning. Footage of the tenting being blow down and even melting in the intense sudden heat, the general confusion afterwards. A new crime scene had been created. The one thing the news did not know, however, was whether or not there had been a body in the casket. All they knew was that it had exploded. When Lestrade refused to comment on the presence of a body, at a briefing later that morning, it sent Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook into a trending frenzy with theories on what had happened, most of which were leaning towards Moriarty being alive. Even Sherlock was not entirely convinced he was dead. He had witnessed what he thought was a suicide, but he had gone undercover immediately after his own faked death, and he never saw the body again. He trusted Lestrade and Molly’s accounts, but he would have preferred to have witnessed the final body with his own eyes. Now he was being baited just like he had been so many times. And yet he could not answer the one final question: Why now?


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock returned to Baker Street from Barts. He had not slept for nearly forty-eight hours, and he was beginning to hallucinate. A few times he thought he saw small people about 6” tall by the curb. He knew that he was hallucinating, but knowing that did not give him the power to make it stop. Only sleep could help him with that, but he did not want to sleep. He knew that were he not so sleep-deprived that he would not be experiencing the boundaries of the emotion he detested the most: fear.

He was as afraid as the day he had faced Moriarty on the rooftop of Barts. Even though several scenarios had been worked out for a safe descent, it was still a daunting jump. He had been afraid at Dewer’s Hollow when he thought he saw the gigantic hound. He tried to suppress the fear, but it continued to plague him like the lingering scent of smoke in the air from a nearby fire.

The news cameras and reporters were waiting at Baker Street for him, and he had no one with him to help him fight his way to the front door. Cameras and microphones in his face. Questions being asked. He needed John. Or Lestrade. Anyone. He tried to make his way to the front door but was blocked. The eyes behind the camera that blocked him – he knew that face. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. He tried to refocus. It could not be Moriarty, but it was. He grabbed the camera and yanked it from the man’s hands, sending it crashing to the pavement. Before the man could protest, Sherlock had his hands on the man’s throat and had pushed him down to the pavement. “You are dead! Dead!” Almost immediately there were others in the fray pulling Sherlock off the innocent cameraman who rolled to his side, gasping for air. And then it was not Moriarty any longer. “Oh… I am so sorry. So sorry!” He could not shake off the men who restrained him. The police were called.

Three hours later Lestrade unlocked a jail cell door and held it open as Sherlock walked out. “Think we can keep this from my brother?” Sherlock asked.

“Too late. Already on all the news shows. What the hell was all that about?”

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“Moriarty.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“I know, I know. It was a hallucination. I’m just tired. I haven’t slept since coming back—“ He cut himself off because Lestrade did not know about the exile. “In over two days.”

“What’s stopping you then?”

“How can I go home? Press will be there wanting Moriarty updates, and I haven’t anything to tell them. They’re waiting outside this building no doubt.”

“I can get you out of here without you being seen. Tell me where you want to go and I’ll take you.”

“Barts,” he said.

Lestrade took Sherlock through the underground corridors connecting Scotland Yard to the long government building next door. From the government building they took another underground corridor to a judicial building. From there he took control of a government vehicle with darkly tinted windows, and they made their escape.

Sherlock was beginning to feel almost faint from lack of sleep. There was a noticeable quiver in his hands and he felt as if all his internal organs were trembling, and that was not a comfortable feeling.

“I need your confidence about something,” Sherlock said.

“Of course,” Lestrade assured him.

“No, I mean it. There’s something you need to know about this investigation.” Sherlock insisted.

“Sherlock, whatever you want to tell me, it remains only with me. I swear.” Lestrade insisted.

“And I need you not to despise me afterwards, because I need someone in my corner right now.”

“John’s in your corner.”

“John’s not really available with the baby coming any day.”

Sherlock hesitated, then told Lestrade the truth about how and why Magnussen had died. That entire incident had been handled discreetly with the only information on his death that he had been killed by an unknown intruder. The government had completely covered it up and kept the police mostly at bay about it. He then told him about the six-month covert death mission and exile that had been rescinded with a pardon when the Moriarty crisis had come up.

Lestrade listened in stunned silence. Sherlock had made no excuses for his actions. In fact, he vilified himself. Without too much detail, he mentioned that Mary Watson had a past that Magnussen was threatening to expose, that she had gone to kill him when Sherlock had come into scene and that she had shot Sherlock instead. Magnussen was now using that information against her and Sherlock had tried to make an exchange of information, specifically government secrets on Mycroft’s laptop, but when Sherlock discovered that Mary’s secrets were all tucked into Magnussen’s own mind palace, he knew he’d been out-played and the only way to solve it was to kill Magnussen in order to keep Mary and many others safe.

When Sherlock went silent, Lestrade also remained silent. It was a lot to take in. “You have to know the whole truth or you’ll be ineffective in helping me with the Moriarty puzzle.” Sherlock added.

Lestrade still could not believe it, but in a way, he’d seen a change begin in Sherlock from the time he returned after being undercover for two years dismantling Moriarty’s network. The change was subtle and Lestrade had mostly dismissed it, but now the change was fully pronounced. Sherlock had murdered in cold blood, and the Crown had pardoned him so that he could deal with the current crisis.

Lestrade glanced over at him. “You’re shaking.”

“Can’t make it stop. I haven’t slept since I got off the jet. No, since before. I don’t know how long it’s been.”

“You’re having a proper meltdown is what’s happening.” Lestrade said, and his voice softened. “I’ve seen this with my guys on the force before. Even if it’s required, it can really shake them up to have to kill someone in the line of duty. You’ve got yourself a case of post traumatic stress, Sherlock, and you need some help before you start seeing Moriarty everywhere or before you try to--”

“Kill someone again?” Sherlock interjected.

“I wasn’t going to say it.”

“Didn’t have to. Look, I went through twenty-eight therapists when I was younger. All of them morons. Mum and Dad finally gave up.” Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned against the window. “I just need to sleep and I’ll be all sorted.”

They continued towards Barts through heavy London traffic without either saying anything for a few minutes. “Sherlock, I’m still your friend. Whatever I can do to help, just let me know.” He glanced at Sherlock and realized he was asleep.

Lestrade did not take him straight to Barts. He did not want to awaken him. Instead he simply drove around London for a few hours as if he had a sleeping baby in the car who could not be woken. The weight of what Sherlock had confided cast a new color on their working relationship. He had always known Sherlock was slightly unpredictable with a potential dark side, but he had never thought him capable of murder. That the government had also covered up the murder really bothered him although he knew there were many things that the government white-washed, and he also knew that there were times when Sherlock was able to take action outside of the law. Having Mycroft Holmes in such a high powered position meant that Sherlock could get away with a lot that a normal citizen would not, even though Sherlock’s potential punishment had been devastating. Although Britain had long ago done away with the death penalty, the government still had covert ways of enforcing it. Sherlock had received a pardon, no doubt by either the Prime Minister or the Queen.

John Watson had also received a pardon. Despite the fact that it was his gun used in Magnussen’s murder, all the witnesses clearly knew that Sherlock had done the deed while John had watched in horror. John’s pardon was for the co-conspiracy to sell government secrets, something that Mycroft knew also came solely from Sherlock and therefore a court case was little more than an unnecessary cost at the expense of the Commonwealth.

The Holmes family had been none too happy to be drugged at Christmas while Sherlock and John had made off with Mycroft’s laptop. When they came to, Mrs. Holmes was positively livid. She had only ever spanked Sherlock once when he was six years old. He had blown up her entire set of Herend Rothschild Bird teacups in a chemistry experiment gone wrong and he’d nearly burnt the house down in the process. He had wailed pitifully not from the stinging punishment but because she had fundamentally failed to understand the importance of his work even at such a tender age. After that he was required to keep his bedroom door open at all times so that she knew what he was up to. Grown man or not, she briefly entertained some very harsh ideas on how she would discipline him the next time they were together. Certainly she would have some very strong words with him. She would also have words with him over the fact that she and his father were questioned for their participation in the ordeal, even though the questioning was brief and they were never considered to be involved.

Bill Wiggins had been briefly arrested as a conspirator, but after intensive questioning had been released, having had no idea what Sherlock had been truly planning. Mrs. Holmes made it perfectly clear that he was not welcome at their home again.

Mary Watson was none too happy to be drugged either, despite John’s protests that he’d had no idea what Sherlock had been planning. She too had been questioned for possible involvement, but was under far less scrutiny. Still, she blamed John for his involvement as the fragile mend of their relationship took yet another hit.

Even Mycroft came under a little scrutiny which irritated him to no end. Nevertheless he was chastised by his peers for leaving his laptop so vulnerable.

Sherlock and John had been arrested at Appledore and taken into custody, but not the custody of Scotland Yard. Mycroft had needed time to sort things out regarding Sherlock and did not want a media circus around him. John received a pardon within a few days, but Sherlock had remained incarcerated in a secret facility until only a few days before he was to leave on his MI-6 mission. The British public would never tolerate their hero being in prison and would have rioted daily. The public was terribly sentimental for him.

When John and Mary met Sherlock at the airstrip on the day he was leaving for exile, it was the first time they had seen him since the incident at Appledore. Despite having been drugged at Christmas, Mary knew he’d saved her from Magnussen’s exposure of her former life as an assassin, and they had exchanged a warm but brief embrace. With Sherlock and John, however, there was an awkwardness and pain between them, and Sherlock could do little more than shake John’s hand and say stoically, “To the best of times,” as if it had all only been a mere business venture while simultaneously trying to induce a little levity like old times. Somehow it was not working anymore. Something had changed and they could not go back to the way things were before.

Sherlock’s parents were not informed of the exile although they were told he was going undercover for six months. Mycroft had been fully expecting to deliver the bad news in six months that Sherlock had been killed, so he felt there was no reason for them to start their grieving immediately.

Lestrade arrived four hours later at Barts by the entrance to pathology, and Molly met him outside with a hospital blanket that she immediately put around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock seemed slightly more alert but stumbled a bit, and Molly and Lestrade put their arms around him to help him into the building.

“Find a quiet place for him to sleep. He’s a mess. Did John call in a script for something to help him sleep?” When Molly nodded he instructed, “Let me know when he wakes up.”

Molly took him to an area of Barts that was under remodel, but the construction had been halted for two weeks due to a contractual glitch. She had moved a hospital bed into one of the empty rooms, and she helped him into the bed. He still had a noticeable tremor. She offered him a couple of pills and a bottle of water.

Sherlock took the pills and washed them down with the bottled water, then leaned back with a groan and closed his eyes. Sleep tried to claim him almost immediately, but within a minute of each time, he would startle awake, his heart racing.

“You’re safe here,” Molly insisted.

“He’s coming for me, Molly.”

“Moriarty’s dead. You know that, and even if he was alive, but he isn’t, you’re Sherlock Holmes, and you can defeat him.”

“No,” he said in half stupor, “Moriarty was right. I’m just ordinary.”

He shifted his weight painfully. The chip was bothering him. He began to feel the first waves of the sleep aid washing over him, and his eyes had trouble focusing. The harder he tried to fight it, the more it wanted to tow him under its spell. His eyes soon rolled back in his head, and the tremor in his hands ceased as he sank into a deep sleep. Molly covered him with the blanket, then pulled up a chair beside him and waited until she knew he was deeply asleep.

“You will never be ordinary, Sherlock Holmes,” she said quietly. “You are extraordinary.”

Molly returned to check on him every hour. She fully expected him not to be there each time, that he’d awoken and stumbled out of the hospital. That would have been his way, to disappear, but each time he was still there sleeping. In fact, he had not moved at all, and she even checked more closely to make certain that he was breathing. His breaths were slow and even. Sometimes there was a twitch in his hands. Even when her shift was over she stayed with him a few hours. She texted Lestrade that he was still asleep.

Lestrade, in the meantime had gone to 221B Baker Street to confront the media. “You may as well go home. He’s not here, and I don’t know when he’s coming back because he’s on the Moriarty case. I’m going to ask that for the safety of the other private citizens on the street and for the flow of traffic that you remove yourselves and your news vehicles. There will be no press conferences given from this location now or in the near future. Any updates on the Moriarty matter will be given directly from Scotland Yard. I do assure you again, however, that James Moriarty is dead, and we don’t know yet who or what we are dealing with. As soon as there is an update, Scotland Yard will schedule a press conference.”

Within the hour all the media vehicles had left the location and traffic was flowing on the street normally. Speedy’s Café resumed its normal business, and night fell on Baker Street with a peaceful calm.

Sherlock awoke around 5:00 A.M., having slept for nearly sixteen hours. He barely remembered where he was or how he had arrived there. He just knew he was thirsty and that he wanted to brush his teeth and take a long, hot shower.

He left Barts in the pre-dawn light and took a cab back to Baker Street. He was relieved to find all the media gone, and he let himself in and quietly walked up the stairs to his flat. This time he was much calmer. There was work to be done in unpacking his things and beginning to focus on the case even though he had little to go on. Before he even shut the door behind him, however, his phone buzzed with a text alert. It was 5:30 A.M.

MARY AND BABY FINE

6 LBS, 2 OZ, 18.9 INCHES

BEAUTIFUL GIRL. VERY HAPPY

Sherlock groaned. Baby statistics were useless information as far as he was concerned and now he would have to purge them from his memory before they took up residence in his mind palace. The phone beeped a text alert again.

ELIZABETH MARIE SHERILYN WATSON

A succession of photos came through of the proud parents in the delivery room. Babies bored him, but he looked for a moment just so that he could honestly say he’d seen them. He thought John and Mary looked brilliantly happy, and he was slightly chuffed that their daughter did have part of his name, especially after John had insisted they were not naming her after him. He could only assume that was Mary’s idea, and since he had taken the threat of Magnussen out of her life, she owed him that small favor at least.

Of course it meant that John would be around even less, but John had not been around as much anyhow since his wedding. Sherlock had not expected just how much he would be absent, and he especially wanted him now with the Moriarty case.

Sherlock also knew, however, that murdering Magnussen had put a strain on his relationship with John. It was not the same as when John had shot the cabbie to save Sherlock’s life. Sherlock’s act had been brutal. A deep, darkness had revealed itself in his soul, and he knew that John was taking a deliberate step back. Maybe it was only a temporary step, but Sherlock was not sure. He still could not say, however, that he had true regrets in shooting Magnussen. He only had regrets for the consequences it caused for those around him. It troubled him that he could not feel remorse for Magnussen’s family and colleagues who mourned his loss, and he thought how perhaps he was truly more like James Moriarty than he cared to admit. Moriarty never regretted the death of anyone, and although Sherlock did not believe in Heaven or Hell, he thought if there was a Hell, he would indeed shake Moriarty’s hand there. He had said he was on the side of the angels but not one of them, but now he doubted if his statement had been accurate.

Although he hoped Mary was now safe, he doubted that she truly was. If Magnussen had information on her, that information existed somewhere else to be found, and it would only be a matter of time before someone else came looking for her. Shooting Magnussen was only stalling the probable inevitable.

Sherlock had operated independently for five years before John, and he hated to think he was going back to that, but that was the way it felt. He knew Lestrade would help him if needed, but Lestrade had his own job to do with Scotland Yard, and Sherlock helped him, not the other way around.

He had a black spot on his heart now, and he would never be able to blot it out.


	3. Chapter 3

The pathology labs at Barts always had better equipment resources and technology than he could ever squeeze into the kitchen at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock had been staring into the microscope for what seemed like hours. He focused on Moriarty’s watch, but he was having a difficult time concentrating. He knew why he could not concentrate, however. There was something else that was interfering with his information filtering. He had another problem to solve, a problem that began with a question, but it had to be proposed in relative privacy, which was hard to do in the lab when the doors swung open every few minutes with someone from the hospital staff delivering or requesting information. All of this activity was distracting at best, but the question that nagged him was divisive to his thought process. He needed to ask Molly the question, but she would leave, others would come, then she’d return and others would come in. He wished he could order them all out but he could not. He had to wait, and waiting was the one thing he did not do well.

Finally a moment when just the two of them were together. Alone. He could hear no footsteps approaching. “Molly, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

She immediately looked up from the reports she was filling out. Her heart skipped a beat, always hopeful. “Yes?”

He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “It’s something that--”

The doors opened then and a lab technician came in to consult with her. A five minute conversation ensued and Sherlock had no choice but to turn back to the microscope, although now he could not see anything at all. If the answer had leaped at him, he would not have seen it. The technician left and he said quickly, “Molly, I need your help.”

That was not what she had been hoping he would say, but anytime he asked for help, she was ready to oblige. “With what?”

Again the doors opened, and he muttered, “Damn,” but this time the interruption was brief. Once they were alone again he said, “When I was being sent off by MI6 for the six month mission, I was micro-chipped. I need you to remove the chip.”

She did not know all the details of his recent activities although she knew he’d accepted a six-month assignment that apparently was no longer needed. “You’re chipped? I thought that was just for the royal family.”

“Standard procedure,” he said nonchalantly. Clearly he did not want her to know everything. He was fairly certain that she did not know about his involvement with Magnussen’s death except what had been officially released to the press – that Magnussen had been murdered by an unknown intruder.

Molly said. “Why don't you ask John?”

“I can’t ask John. He'll be the first suspect should they discover it's gone."

"They'll suspect me too."

“Just a small incision.”

"Sherlock, I can't randomly perform minor surgery on people just because they want it. I could lose my licence and my job. At any rate, I don’t have anything for pain.” she stammered.

“You know where to get it.”

“Not without raising suspicion.”

Another interruption, and each went back to their work for the duration, but as soon as the nurse left, Sherlock immediately spoke. “Molly, I need you.”

That stopped her, and sometimes she hated that he could still do that to her. “Don’t play me, Sherlock.”

“I'm not playing you, I swear. Don't really care to get slapped again. Molly, you are the only one I can trust to do it.”

“It’s government property.”

“But I am not.” He said firmly. “I am a free citizen. At least I was.”

He watched her as she sorted through the issues. She was clearly conflicted, and he didn’t know if he was convincing her at all.

“They will know the chip is out, and there will be an inquiry, and I’ll be a suspect.”

“I have a plan. Trust me.”

But Molly was not ready to give in. “A plan that will get us both in trouble. Maybe you should be monitored.”

That stung a little. She could see it on his face, that quick flash of comprehension, but she was not going to apologize.

“I suppose I could find some crack-head in a back alley to do it. Of course, I could get tetanus, go septic…”

“Stop it,” she said quickly.

Sherlock pulled off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt. “Stop!” she said, and he did stop. They stared at each other for several long moments, neither willing to make the next move, but finally she sighed just a little, and he knew instantly that he’d won. “Not now. Too many people coming and going. I’m pulling a night shift. Come by later. It will be quiet around 3:00 A.M.”

“That late?” he asked in surprise.

“My risk, my rules,” she said.

Sherlock returned to the lab at 3:00 in the morning. When he first removed his shirt and displayed his back for her, he also displayed the scars from the beating he'd taken in Serbia.  He hoped she wouldn't say anything specific about it, but she would know what had caused those types of wounds. She would know he took a severe beating and might even be able to deduce the instrument used.  It was her job, after all, and her years in the morgue had left very little unseen, scrutinized and documented.   

"This happened when you were gone those two years, didn't it?" she asked.

"Molly." he said simply, but his tone had a bit of warning to it.

Molly took an x-ray of his back, and she saw the exact placement of the small chip. She gently felt his back between his spine and left shoulder blade and he winced. “Sorry. Still hurts?”

"Never stopped."

"Must be up against a nerve." She could see a tiny mark from the original injection. The mark was too recent to have developed a scar and although healed was discolored. “Positioned northeast to southwest in the subcutaneous tissue." She cleaned the area on his back, then picked up a capped syringe. “This is just going to pinch a bit, but you won’t feel any pain.”

“Thank you.” he said and then he added, “For taking the risk.”

She began to numb the area, and with each prick he tensed and drew in a sharp breath, but the bupivacaine went to work quickly. When she picked up the scalpel, he drew in another sharp breath. “You shouldn’t feel anything. Let me know if you do. Just breathe deeply and relax and try not to move. Go to a quiet place in your mind if it helps.”

“I’m all right,” he said, and so she began. He handed her pieces of gauze and cotton as she worked, and he began to count the bloody returns. There wasn't a lot of blood, but it was his.

Indeed he did not feel a thing, and when he heard the tiny clink in the specimen jar, he smiled. She began to stitch the small wound. It only required three sutures. “You’re going to have to let me check the wound and change the dressing in a couple of days, but if it really starts to bother you, promise you’ll go to John. Promise.”

“Promise,” he said. She helped him put his shirt on, and when he’d put his coat back on, he smiled and said, “Thank you, Molly.”

“I get off shift in ten. Will you walk me to the tube?” she asked.

“Of course.” he said, and he retrieved the specimen jar with the chip. He found a small evidence bag and placed the chip in the bag, then put the bag in the pocket inside his coat.

It was foggy when they left Barts, and the street lamps had an almost magical halo around them. She was bundled with a long, colorful scarf around her neck, and he had his coat collar turned up. Every breath they took hung for a moment in the air. “So what are you going to do with the chip now?” she asked.

“Oh, I’ll keep it close, give the illusion that it’s still implanted.” he said, “But sometimes it will go in one direction so that I can go in another.”

“Clever,” she smiled, and she gently slipped her arm through his. He tensed for a moment because she had never made that type of move towards him before and he wasn't certain what his response should be. It occurred to him, however, that it would be terribly rude to remove her arm, and he wasn't entirely dissatisfied with it being there. She had simply taken him by surprise. He looked down at her, then smiled to himself and relaxed..

"They know you're here tonight, don't they?"

"Of course, but that's nothing suspicious." he replied. "However, when I come back for a wound check, they will think I'm moving around London. Homeless network, actually."

"So you’ll have some privacy again.”

"Exactly.” He could not possibly explain what it meant to have the freedom to move through London without being tracked, but he knew he would have to change his bolt holes, except for Leinster Gardens. He was fairly certain Mycroft still did not know that one.

There was a long moment of awkward silence. She wanted to say something, anything but he was content with silence. Finally she blurted, "My stitching is really fine. You shouldn't have any scar."

"Good," he said simply.

They arrived at the stairwell to the Underground, and she released his arm. He started to descend, but she did not follow him, and as soon as he realized she wasn't following, he turned and came back up. "Molly?"

She held up one finger telling him to wait. Clearly she was struggling to put together her words. Finally she took a deep breath and said, “I can’t lose you again. I won't do it. First you were gone for two years, and then I thought you were leaving on another dangerous mission. You barely even said goodbye. Don't tell me that you want me to find happiness elsewhere again. I'm still in love with you, Sherlock Holmes. I will always be in love you. I will always love you.”

And now she needed him to make the next move, any move, to prove to herself that he was engaged emotionally in their relationship. It would be too easy for her to make the move to cover the awkward silence, but it was all she could do not to make the slightest approach, even with him within a few inches of her. She could feel the warmth of his breath and was almost certain she could hear his heartbeat. If she could have laid her head on his chest at that moment, she would hear his heart beating so hard it would be difficult to control breathing. What was he thinking? What was he analyzing?

Don’t say a word. Force him to speak, she told herself. If he could have read her mind, he would have heard her asking him to show his interest in her by taking the lead.

“Molly.” His deep voice was barely more than a whisper but she heard him clearly. Sometimes the way he said her name was a little patronizing but not this time.

“Yes,” was all she could manage. Her stomach knotted, certain a rejection was coming. He had already exposed that he knew she loved him but that was when she was engaged to Tom. Why had she now declared her love? She suddenly wished she could recall her words.

“Molly, you know what I am.”

"'You're not actually a sociopath, you know. You don't fit the clinical description." She smiled a little, and even though he was trying to be serious, there was a little sparkle in his eyes at hearing the word. "You just say it to put people off. It’s easier than--”

“Molly.” He stopped her. “I am not the man you want me to be,” he said, and she felt the slight patronizing tone. It was almost as if he were scolding her for daring to speak her love.

“I know there’s a quiet, tender man in there that you keep stuffing in the bin.” She insisted. “There’s a man who desperately wants to connect. I can see it. I believe in that man.”

“Perhaps you only see what you want to see,” he insisted.

“I see a man who needs to allow himself to be loved and to see himself as someone who can be loved.”

“You can’t rescue me or save me.” He said darkly. “There are things you do not know about me. Terrible things. Things that should make you want to stay far away from me.”

“What? Like you murdered someone or something?” she said almost flippantly.

He pursed his lips and looked away. He was not going to answer that. He did not want her to know. He felt her fingers on the back of his hand. It was a touch so light and gentle.

“I'm not afraid of you, but you’re right. I can’t save you. But I can love you and stay by your side always. Always. You don’t have to fight your demons alone anymore, Sherlock Holmes.” She moved even closer to him and looked up into his eyes with all the seriousness she could muster. “Look at me. Really look at me.”

He did look at her, and the longer he looked, the more he felt the tough exterior of his heart begin to crack to the point it nearly pained him. She could see right through him and he knew it. The implications of her love and the multitudes of scenarios on how it could possibly play out flashed rapid fire through this brain. It was all at once overwhelming.

“You know you care about me, and I know you care about me."

“Yes, as a friend.” he admitted quietly. “But caring and love aren't the same things, are they? And you're wanting love.”

Now she began to feel the coldness of rejection, and she wondered if she could salvage her declaration. “Caring is the beginning of love,” she said.

“Molly, you are the one I can go to when I cannot go to anyone else. Do you really want to compromise that with… with more?”

“Nothing needs to be compromised.,” she insisted..

“Oh but it would be.” he replied.

Suddenly things seemed at a dead end. He was not taking the lead in the way she had hoped. He was just putting up walls, and she needed to find a way to break them down.

“Sherlock, I know you’re not in love with me, but you do care, and that’s a part of love, isn’t it? So no pretending. No lies like with Janine. If you’re here with me, right now, knowing how I’ve always felt, then be here. Be present. Be real. If you’re not really here for this moment, for us, respect me enough to let me go because I don’t want to be just friends anymore.” She realized too late that it was it the most frightening thing she’d ever said, because if he rejected her ultimatum, it would make any future working with him unbearably awkward and painful. Now she was truly afraid.

He froze for a moment. She had made her boundaries clear, and he needed to process and analyze this new information. It was information that could not be processed in the same way as he would almost instantly filter clues in an investigation. It was information that required unlocking the sealed door of his heart, and that door was heavily guarded and practically rusted shut.

It seemed like a long moment, perhaps too long. He saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes as if she would pull away from him in an instant, and he suddenly squeezed her hand firmly. She looked down at their hands, then into his eyes.

“I. Am. Here.” There was pain in his eyes, and she saw it the way she could always see it. His walls were down, at least for the moment, but she knew they could be built again on the turn of a single word or fear. “I am so tired of being so frightened.”

“Love is scary for everyone,” she assured him. "So we'll just be scared together right now."

That was not exactly what he meant but he was not going to correct the assumption either because there was a little truth to her statement.

“What frightens you, Molly Hooper?”

“Being rejected by you again.” she said.

Her remark instantly cut through him like a knife, piercing through even the bone and marrow of his soul. He took a deep, almost ragged breath and released it slowly as he battled the rising well of emotion within him. Now the tears came. "I have never meant to hurt you. Sorry again.”

“I wasn’t looking for an apology,” she said. She hesitated a moment and then threaded her arms around him inside his open coat and laid her head against his chest. Finally she could hear his heart, and it was beating as wildly as hers.

He allowed her embrace but did not reciprocate as he continued to struggle with what he had just possibly committed to. Not only that, but she was invading his personal space without him being the initiator, and in general he wasn't keen on being touched or making physical contact of any kind unless he was the initiator. He grimaced for a moment and tensed. This new development in his life had been the furthest thing from his mind in light of the Moriarty case, and it had come upon him so suddenly that he was still reeling from it. Yet in reality, he almost immediately returned her embrace, wrapping her inside his coat, and he found himself holding her very tightly. They remained in the embrace for several minutes, neither being willing to let go. This moment had been so long in coming. “Dearest Molly,” she heard him say in barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“I’ll help you.”

“We will have to be so careful. I don't want whoever is pretending to be Moriarty to come after you. I don't want him to know about you. I don't want anything to happen to you because of your association with me. Do you understand why compromise is so dangerous, especially now?"

“I'm not afraid. Just tell me what to do,” she said.

He took her sweet face in his hands. “You must be my best kept secret in all ways at all times. Will that be enough for you?”

“You’re all I need.” She assured him.

Words that cut through to his heart again. He leaned down then and kissed her mouth so sweetly, so tenderly. And then a deeper, searching kiss. He wanted to melt into her, to lose himself completely in her. She thought she heard him whisper her name.

In the distance Big Ben chimed 4:15 A.M. Neither wanted the moment to end, but something had to change. “Wake up beside me tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes.” she invited softly.

He patted his breast pocket. “Can’t. Chip, remember?” He smiled sweetly to her. “I’ll work out a system quickly, I promise. Now we’d best get you on the tube.”

He offered her his hand, and they walked down the stairwell to the underground platform. It was completely empty, but they could both hear the next train coming, and within moments it roared up and the doors opened. He kissed her sweetly again, and she then stepped on the train and within a few moments the doors closed and the car began to move. He stood stoically on the platform in his long dark trench coat, with upturned collar, almost like a man from another time period. She looked away for a moment only to find him gone like a phantom when she looked back, and quite suddenly she felt as if she were being separated from him for an eternity. What should have been a joyous new beginning was completely overwhelming and brought her to tears, and she sat down and wept all the way to her station.

Sherlock emerged from the stairwell back to the street level and began to walk down the middle of the street. He would eventually hail a cab, but for now he walked in the loneliness of the dark morning. The complexity of his life had taken a new depth, and he needed time to sort the pieces and reassemble them.

He continued to walk the streets of London, occasionally taking a short ride on the tube until he came to the corner of the Westminster Bridge and the Victoria Embankment. The city’s traffic was beginning to stir in the pre-dawn bluish light, but it was a lazy stir, made even more so by the mist that rose off the Thames. He leaned back against the base of the Boudiccan Rebellion memorial statue and lit a cigarette. The neon blue outline of the London Eye towered above him across the river, and he turned up his collar as he released a long drag from his cigarette. He looked across the street at Big Ben as it began to chime the early hour. He had a bolt hole behind the clock face, but he rarely used it because it was, quite frankly, extraordinarily noisy during the times the clock chimed. It was not a noise he could tune out. Even the sound reverberation would rattle through his core, and that was not an entirely pleasant feeling. He had only used it a few times and so briefly it was hardly worth the effort. Tonight would not be one of the times he would use it, but he always found it comforting somehow just to hear it. He could usually hear it three miles away at Baker Street, but there was nothing like standing below it when it was chiming so stoically as it had done for centuries as if to say all’s well.

Sherlock turned north on foot, walking past Big Ben as he headed north towards Baker Street. He wanted more than anything to turn around and see Molly again. What had she done to him this night? How had she managed to open the door to his heart when he had so carefully denied all access to any woman? Even his friendship with John had barely opened a window to allow a little warmth in his heart. No, somehow Molly had found the key and unlocked the heavily guarded doors, and he was not certain he could shut them if he wanted to.

He walked into 221B, and even though he had just walked nearly three miles to get there, there was a lightness to his step as he bounded up the stairs. He unlocked the door to his flat and walked in to face the reality that for all the things he had, the apartment was empty. It had felt terribly empty after John had left, but now it felt even emptier because Molly was not there, but he realized he could not ever have her live there. That would never be safe. The flat had been broken into before and he didn’t want her ever to face that kind of danger. Also, Mycroft had a key and had an unsettling habit of occasionally showing up uninvited. No, Molly would have to keep her flat, and their new level of relationship would have to be extremely protected and private. He was not interested in “dating” behavior with her or being with her in public even if at an event where having someone pretty on his arm would be a reasonable expectation. This relationship needed a level of secrecy that would be the envy of the country’s secret service, but he did not know how she would feel about being so covert.

He began to have doubts that it would ever work with her. Surely no one would ever want that level of secrecy in a relationship. What kind of relationship was that? He could not rightfully ask her to keep that, could he? But what else could he do? He wanted to know her. Even at that moment he wanted to turn and go back to her, but he knew he could not.

He had not felt the discomfort of the earlier minor surgery where she had removed his microchip, but now it was feeling a bit sore. He removed his coat and jacket and then began to unbutton his shirt. He removed his shirt and walked into his bathroom where he tried to get a look at the wound in the mirror. It was covered with a large bandage, and with a little awkward maneuvering, he was able to peel it off. The small wound was slightly red but not unusually so, and now he regretted removing the bandage because it would mean the prickly ends of the stitches would catch on everything and be a nuisance. He would have Mrs. Hudson put on a new bandage when she brought up his tea in a few hours. For now he wanted to get a little sleep if possible. He found, however, that his mind was racing, and there was no settling down for sleep.

Mrs. Hudson brought up the tray of tea at 9:00 as she always did, and by that time he was starting to feel the urge to sleep so strongly that he could barely keep his eyes open. He was not even certain his words were making sense when he asked her to put a bandage over his wound.

“What’s this from?” she asked as she applied a new bandage.

“Just a little cosmetic surgery.” He said. “Thank you.” He headed to his bedroom and shut the door.

“Sherlock, what about your tea?” she asked.

“Sleeping.” He said and he crawled into bed, pulled up the covers and was almost immediately asleep.

His dreams were troubled. Dark imagery and danger seemed to be at every turn. He still had occasional nightmares of being shot by Mary. Sometimes it was the same gun she had used, sometimes it was larger rifle that blew a huge hole through him. That would always startle him awake, and he would be sweating profusely, his heart racing. Despite the fact that he had long since forgiven her, he did not know if he would ever fully recover from the shock and horror of facing the shooter while being shot. In some dreams the giant glowing hound with red eyes would chase him through the woods, but he could wake himself up from that one too. It was only when he was troubled going into sleep that the nightmares started, and he was troubled this time. Molly had him troubled, and he had a lot to sort out with her and his life.

And there was one other slightly troubling factor in his relationship: the potential for physical intimacy. While it was true that sex did not alarm him as he had said to Mycroft at Buckingham Palace, he had meant that in more of a clinical way. Sex could be completely deconstructed down to being nothing more than a chemical reaction. He understood that science perfectly well but he was a 38-year-old virgin, and that did alarm him a little. He had on occasion looked at porn on John’s computer. He did not find porn particularly titillating, and he knew all the moaning was over-done for camera. It was relatively fake to him, so it held no real interest to him except in the study of the mechanics. In general he found porn somewhat tedious, but now he wondered about sex, and he wondered about physical intimacy with Molly, and that was a little alarming to his lack of experience.

After a few hours of sleep he got up and took a cold shower. He had to refocus his brain on the matters at hand. He could not afford to be distracted by thoughts of physical intimacy. He had to force the thoughts down and place a heavy lid on them. The best way he knew to refocus was to play his violin, and he began playing about 2:00 P.M. and did not stop until nearly 10:00 that night. By that time he was finished, he had nearly forgotten his time with Molly the night before. His email was bursting with new cases, and he’d missed several important phone calls, including two from Mycroft. His fingers were sore, and he had not eaten all day.

He had a theory to test. He removed his chip from his coat and stared at it for a long time before wrapping it in a small towel, binding the towel with electrical tape, then putting it into a small box. Tonight he would send it around London via his homeless network and he would head out for a night of freedom, specifically to his favorite fish and chips shop off Marylebone Road.


	4. Chapter 4

In his first week after being recalled from the MI6 mission, there had been no more disrupts in the media with Moriarty’s picture. In fact, it had all gone silent although the media continued to feature it on the news, and he was also constantly on the news but in picture only as he was refusing all interviews.

Lestrade's department had uncovered the names of the family members who had claimed Moriarty's body. However, upon further investigation, those family members turned out to be false identities, and now the team of detectives he had assigned to the case were scrambling to uncover who these people were. The security footage from the hospital morgue no longer existed, and without it they were struggling for leads. Sherlock suggested they pay a visit to Lord Sebastian Moran at Strangeways Prison in Manchester since Moran had been one of Moriarty's underlings. Chances were he knew plenty, but whether they could get that information out of him was another issue.

Sherlock hailed a cab to Breitling on Bond Street. Moriarty’s watch was not ordinary at all. The particular model, in fact, only was issued to the public two months before the casket had been exhumed, and at a customized price tag of nearly £50,000, it was not a watch that the general public was going to rush out and purchase. No, it was so exclusive that only one store in London carried it at all. It also had a serial number, making it theoretically easy enough to find out who the buyer was. It was the exact kind of watch that Moriarty would have owned when he was alive. He had always liked the flashy trinkets and suits. That it was so exclusive meant that whoever put it there was deliberately saying, “come and get me” or “catch me if you can,” both of which were definitely Moriarty in style.

On the way to the store, however, he received a text from an unknown caller.

YOU WON’T FIND THE ANSWER AT BREITLING

BUT GOOD LUCK TRYING. JM

The text set him instantly on edge. He knew that he was being watched or followed or both, and he did not know how, but it was this sort of thing that had him worried about having a relationship with Molly. He did not want her in danger, and for someone to know his every move would put her in danger. He worried that perhaps he had already been indiscreet with her in the wee hours of the morning, and he thought perhaps he should not have encouraged her in any way. And yet… he wasn’t quite willing to abandon what had begun either. He wondered if his current movements were connected to his chip that was in his coat pocket, but he could not fix that issue at the moment. He had to go into Breitling and pursue the watch lead.

Breitling management and specialists examined the watch and looked up the serial number. It had been sold two months previously to a James Moriarty, paid for in person with a debit card. The sale was even time-stamped. Sherlock asked to review the security footage from the day, and the footage was removed from the storage vaults. He scanned through the footage quickly, then came to the watch sale in question. The man looked like Moriarty. He even sounded like him. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Enhance the image.”

The footage was paused, and a smiling Moriarty was enhanced. “Enhance again.”

The image was brought into closer focus. It was the smile. There was something off in the smile. Sherlock had seen the smile up close, and something wasn’t right in the footage. It was not so much the smile but the teeth. They were not significantly different but were different enough that the man was obviously not the Moriarty who had died on the roof. But who was this man?

The payment for the watch was legitimate, but it would take a court order to force Breitling to release the financial institution information regarding where the funds were drawn from, and that was especially aggravating in light of the fact that he was being watched. As soon as he stepped out of Breitling, his phone beeped with another text.

I TOLD YOU, BUT YOU NEVER LISTEN.

WELCOME BACK TO THE GAME, SHERLOCK HOLMES. JM

There was no way to trace it back to the caller, and Sherlock was fairly seething for an answer. He quickly evaluated his surroundings, spotting several security cameras. Were they specifically watching him? Was he being satellite tracked by the imposter? Were the cameras being controlled by satellite and locked into his signal? He did not know, but he did not like it.

He had thought the Moriarty business was starting to get old. It was now just irritating.

He hailed a cab and returned to 221B Baker Street. He took his coat off and tossed it in a heap on John’s old chair. He stared at it for a long time. He was nearly ready to tell Mycroft that he’d had the chip removed but his phone rang, and it was Mycroft.

“Blood.” He said tersely.

“Brother dear, how’s the investigation going?”

“You ought to know,” Sherlock said dryly. Mycroft always knew the answer up front anyhow and was clearly wasting energy asking. “Our fake Moriarty seems to know exactly where I am all the time. Any ideas how that can be?”

“Perhaps you failed to dismantle his network completely.”

“Impossible.”

“Such confidence, and yet it seems that you have missed something.”

Sherlock tensed. He was certain he had not missed anything. “Even the real Moriarty didn’t know where I was all the time. I think it’s connected to you.”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“My movements are tracked by satellite, Mycroft, and we both know it. Who else knows I can be tracked like that and is feeding that information to this imposter, because at this point I consider all your peers to be suspects, and I consider you to be the chief suspect, my new number one rat.”

“Oh now you’ve really gone off.”

“Have I? Seems like the new threat didn’t appear until I was ready to be exiled. How convenient!”

Mycroft sighed deeply. “I see your gratitude has faded already.”

Sherlock bristled. “It wouldn’t be past you to fabricate a crisis to get your way.”

“Fabricate? The crisis of which you speak is entirely self-inflicted.”

“Self-inflicted?”

“We both know what you did, Sherlock. I was there, remember?”

Sherlock’s jaw tightened. “Is this how all our conversations will end now? Will that hang over my head for the rest of my life? I was pardoned.”

“And you think that erases the event as if it never happened? You’ve not even begun to understand the depths of what you did. There’s still a dead man, Sherlock, and you pulled the trigger because you were out-matched and out-played. You allowed your emotions and caring to get in the way, and there’s a murdered man in your wake. Do you feel no remorse for the deed?”

“I was willing to pay for it with my life.”

“Accepting a punishment is not the same as remorse, or have you forgotten mummy’s Herend?”

“I was only six years old, Mycroft.”

“And you never apologized or made amends, because fundamentally you felt you had a right to do it. No different with Magnussen. Rules of ethical and moral conduct apply to you too, Sherlock.”

“Remind me of the government’s ethics and morals the next time you start a war. Or doesn’t that apply?”

There was a moment of tense silence between the brothers. “Goodbye, Sherlock.” Mycroft hung up and Sherlock smiled a little to himself. He loved to wind up Mycroft if he could, but there was also some truth behind his words. He did suspect a hole in Mycroft’s circle or even the secret service.

Sherlock began to map out all of Mycroft’s close colleagues, specifically the ones who would have approved the decision for him to be sent on the MI-6 mission. Somewhere there was a new rat. How many had witnessed Magnussen’s death? John, Mycroft, the helicopter pilot, the police force special agents. He would also find out the names of all the agents whose guns had been focused on him after he shot Magnussen. How many had there been? He thought six but was not entirely certain because once he had killed Magnussen, he had sunk to his knees, hands behind his head, totally overcome with the emotional magnitude of what he had done. He had felt all of Mycroft’s years of taunting come back to haunt him, and he had wondered if Mycroft had always been right about him: that he was stupid after all. And for those moments, he was very scared and in desperate need of his big brother to rescue him from himself. He had gone almost numb from the shock of what he’d done. It had been all at once over-whelming. He was truly in the biggest trouble of his life with no way out. He no longer could hear John’s voice, Mycroft’s voice from the helicopter’s loud speakers, the blades of the helicopter. His world had gone dark. He was still numb when special forces had forced him down and had cuffed him. The helicopter had landed on the Appledore lawns by that time, and his face was still pressed into the large cement tiles of the deck when Mycroft walked up. The security forces pulled Sherlock to his feet. He didn’t look at Mycroft. He didn’t look at anyone. It was almost as if he was blind.

He felt blind now, and he was not certain how to get the upper hand in the situation. He was on the defensive and needed to be on the offensive, but he was missing the key that would begin to unlock the mystery, and as long as he did not have it, he was at the mercy of whoever was behind it all. He did not like being at someone’s mercy.

He picked up his phone and texted John.

BUSY? IF NOT COME TO BAKER STREET.

IF SO, COME REGARDLESS. URGENT. SH

John arrived at Baker Street two hours later only to find Sherlock in the middle of a rapturous violin melody.

“You do know that the universe does not spin around you, don’t you? I have a baby now, and I’ve only just brought Mary home from hospital.” John said slightly tersely. “So this had better be good.”

Sherlock set his violin down and turned to face John. The silence between them was awkward. “Did I say congratulations?”

“No,” John said. “And you can stop worrying about being made the godfather. We’ve asked Stella and Ted to be the godparents.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock said, but there was a small part of him that was disappointed. “How are Mary and Sherilyn?”

“We’re calling her by her first name, and they’re both doing great. Mary sends her love. So what’s so urgent?”

“Sorry, I-I’m not good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“There are things unspoken between us regarding what happened with Magnussen, about that day, and you are quite justified in holding them against me. We’ve not yet sorted them out.”

John was completely confused. “What?”

“I’d like to know that I can still count on you, John.”

John shuffled his feet for a moment. “Of course you can, you know that.”

“You hesitated. Never a good sign,” Sherlock said grimly. There was another long moment of silence between them. “I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For putting you through all that. I had no right.”

“Would you do things differently if you could go back and do it again?”

“How far back?” Sherlock asked.

“That night, Sherlock. Would you still have shot him?”

“Maybe, probably.” Sherlock admitted. “It was too late to change the course of events then.”

“Were you planning on shooting him all along? Is that really why you asked me to bring my gun? I never would have brought it if I’d thought you were going to use it like that. You know that.”

“I thought there could possibly be trouble, and you’re a crackshot. It was for protection, that’s all.”

“Well, I don’t have it anymore. The government confiscated it, and I’m not certain I could get another licence for one if I wanted to.”

“At least you still have Mary’s gun.” As soon as he said the words, he knew they were completely inappropriate. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.”

John sighed deeply, his eyes fixed on Sherlock. “We’ve been through some scary times together, but that was a moment that was the worst. You always seem to have a way out or a plan, but I’m not sure I understand the man who shot Magnussen. All these years we’ve worked together, and I never saw that coming. All the cases you’ve solved with your genius intellect, and suddenly it was just easier to solve it by shooting someone.”

“You shot the cabbie.”

“Your life was in imminent danger.”

“As was Mary’s. And yours and mine.”

“Not quite the same and you know it. You know it.”

“Mary was right, you know. People like Magnussen should be killed.” John blinked in shock, and Sherlock knew he’d said the wrong thing again. Sherlock turned away. He simply could not make eye contact anymore. “I’ve disappointed you again.”

“It wasn’t just about saving Mary and making her safe, although I do thank you for that, but you’d had a vendetta against Magnussen for months before you knew anything about his threat against Mary. You’ve never really explained that one.”

“Not sure I can now either,” Sherlock shrugged. “At least not to anyone’s satisfaction.” Tears came to his eyes. He didn’t want John to see them because he’d faked tears so many times that he wasn’t sure he’d be believed anyhow. “John, are you still my best friend?”

John sighed again and finally said, “Of course.”

That wasn’t exactly as affirmative as Sherlock had hoped. His tears spilled then, but he still didn’t turn around. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you from your family.”

John wasn’t certain what had just happened nor why the “urgent” issue hadn’t been exactly addressed. John sensed there was something not right with Sherlock, but clearly Sherlock wasn’t going to reveal whatever it was. “So that’s it then? That’s what was so urgent? Right.”

John turned and left, and Sherlock turned around then and looked in his direction. Although John had said they were still best friends, trust had been broken and would need to be rebuilt, and that was something that Sherlock would have to do. “Stay for tea,” he said quietly, but John could not hear it.

That had not gone as planned. Sherlock had meant to ask him for help on the case, but somehow the conversation had steered in a different direction, and he had not been able to get it back on course. He desperately wanted John’s help and wanted to go back to the way their relationship had worked before Magnussen’s death, but actually, nothing had been quite the same since Mary had shot him. Their three lives had been turned upside down with that event. It had changed them all, but the greatest change had been with himself, and Sherlock knew it. It had shattered the comfort zone he had built of friendship with Mary, who had been like an extension of John. John’s relationship with Mary had been shattered for several months. Then the shooting of Magnussen had set things on a different edge.

Sherlock looked at his watch. 4:00. The sky was clouded over and threatening to rain. He pulled out his phone and hesitated, for several moments. Should he send the text he was thinking of? After a brief moment of anxiety he did send it.

SOMEWHERE IN TIME. SH


	5. Chapter 5

SOMEWHERE IN TIME. SH

Sherlock sent the text to Molly at 4:00 PM. That was the only text she received from him, but Molly knew instantly what it meant. It was a code she had chosen: it was the title one of her favorite movies. If the timing was welcomed she was to make no response at all. If the timing was not good, her response was to be simply, ENDURANCE. That was the title of one of his favorite books by Alfred Lansing about Antarctic explorer Sir Ernest Shackleton. If something came up in his life that would require the cancellation of his text, he was simply to text back, RAVENS AT THE TOWER.

After his faked death a few years before, he had temporarily used her flat as a bolt hole. She had two bedrooms, hers being the largest, and that was the one he wanted for more space, so she spent two weeks in her guest room. Even Mycroft did not know where he was as he had abandoned his old phone on the roof of Barts and he went into stealth mode. The press was completely defaming him, and he did not want to see any of it. He stayed mostly behind her closed bedroom doors. He had to mentally prepare for his next stage in life and spent hours in his mind palace reviewing all his information on Moriarty. He was also under pressure to learn at least five languages: Russian, Greek, Serbian, Romanian, and Mandarin. Whereas Mycroft could learn a new language in around 2 hours, it took Sherlock about 5 hours, and much of that time was spent learning to mimic a native accent. He was an excellent mimic. There would undoubtedly be other languages he would need to learn while undercover, but those five represented the main hubs of Moriarty's network. He actually had to create an expansion to his mind palace to hold the languages. She rarely saw him, but she would hear him shower or rattle about. Once she thought she heard him crying. They did not eat together. She was not even certain he was eating anything at all despite the fact that she stocked her refrigerator with an assortment of foods so that even the pickiest eater could find something.

On one of the last nights before he was to begin his MI6 assignment, he came out of the bedroom. He looked frazzled, numb and overloaded. There was almost an emptiness in his eyes. He settled on her sofa and stared blankly at the dark television screen. She brought him some tea and biscuits, then sat on the opposite end of the sofa, curling up under a throw blanket with a pathology journal. He consumed his tea and biscuits and returned to the bedroom and shut the door. He had never said a word.

The day before he went undercover for two years was the day he knew John was going to visit his grave with Mrs. Hudson. Molly drove Sherlock to the far side of the cemetery to a secluded spot behind heavy foliage. They both had stepped out of the car, and she had walked over to him where they stood in silence for several moments. Finally he turned to her and smiled awkwardly. "Thank you, Molly Hooper." He leaned in and kissed her cheek much in the same way he had on the Christmas Eve at 221B Baker Street, but he had lingered an extra moment as if he might initiate more personal contact or say something intimate. He felt her hand on his cheek, and he gently pulled it down and shook his head ever so slightly. "Don't keep hoping for me." he said softly but a little sternly. He had known she loved him since she had given him that gift at the previous Christmas. “Dearest Sherlock, Love Molly. XXX” He made no attempts to encourage her feelings while trying to remain on friendly enough terms to continue to avail himself of her help. He had thought himself successful until she had said that she did not count in his world. Truth was, she did count, and it had shocked and hurt a little that she had used the words. She had counted more than he realized, and she had been his only safe haven after his fall from Barts’ rooftop. Still, as he was preparing to go undercover for an unknown length of time, he needed to make certain once again that his stay with her must not be allowed to fan the flames she felt. “Don’t.” he said again.

That sent a chill through her and tears instantly to her eyes. "No?"

"No." he insisted softly but firmly. He stroked away the tear from her cheek with his thumb, and his gloved hand rested on her cheek for a moment. "You deserve true happiness. Find someone worthy of what you have to offer.” He smiled kindly to her again in an almost paternal way

"You're worthy," she insisted quietly but stubbornly.

"Molly." Sherlock spoke in a slight reprimand, and she knew the conversation was over. He turned and made his way through the cemetery.

She had hoped for him, however, and as she had been one of his few contacts who knew of his faked suicide, she occasionally received a brief message that he was safe, but the longer he was gone, the more disconnected she had felt. It was over a year before she met Tom who worked as a junior creative executive in an advertising agency, and she had not shown him any real interest until he had invited her to an animal adoption event at St. James Park where he had picked out an adorable little King Charles Cavalier puppy. He was so boyish and gentle with the dog that she found him completely endearing, even if at times a little doltish. For his birthday she had bought him a nice trench coat and scarf which he was ecstatic for, and after that things had moved fairly quickly to meeting each other's families and finally an engagement in September. They planned to be married the following summer when they could coordinate their holiday schedules for a honeymoon.

Sherlock had reappeared in early November, and she instantly had felt the old flame rekindle, but she was engaged now. However, Sherlock seemed a little different to her. He was less aloof, and they spent a lovely day together when she helped him with some casework. It was his way of inviting her into his life for a day and thanking her. Their friendship had bonded even deeper, but he noticed the ring and congratulated her so kindly and sincerely as they shared a genuinely warm moment. And then another kiss on her cheek that melted her heart all over again. She had tried so hard to make things work with Tom. Lots of time together, lots of sex, but it wasn't helping her to dismiss her feelings for Sherlock.

It had not been until John and Mary's wedding that she realized she could no longer stay engaged to Tom. She simply fell in love with Sherlock all over again with every awkward, sweet and manic word he said in his best man speech, and by the end of the evening she had removed her engagement ring. She had watched Sherlock leave early, but she hadn't gone after him. She still needed to settle things completely with Tom first.

It was at the wedding that Sherlock learned that Janine was connected to Charles Augustus Magnussen, and although it took a bit of backwards deduction, he remembered the wedding telegram that read “Oodles of love and heaps of good wishes. From CAM. Wish your family could have seen this.” He had noticed Mary’s sudden discomfort but dismissed it as wedding nerves. He knew of Magnussen, one of the world’s largest newspaper magnates who had a reputation for blackmail, and he wondered how Mary knew him. He needed to attempt to attract Magnussen’s attention, and his idea had been two-fold: 1) Start dating Janine to gain insider information and 2) to frequent drug dens and try to get his name in the papers regarding his drug addiction. Part of the problem with the second solution, however, had been that the drugs had proven a little too tempting, and he had actually begun using again, even if with the excuse that it was all for a case. Complicating matters was that Janine was quickly falling in love with him and spending the night at 221B Baker Street, but he constantly made his excuses to be out working all night and never actually had sex with her, although he tolerated her kisses and touch while nicking her pass-card to Magnussen’s offices.

He had never meant for John to find him in the drug den, and he certainly had never wanted John to see him when he was high, but he was in fact very high that day. After he had tested positive for cocaine, Molly had slapped him. He did not exactly respond to the first slap and she slapped him almost immediately again. She slapped him really hard the third time and that finally seemed to rattle him and get his attention. She had berated him for throwing away the beautiful gifts he was born with and demanded he apologize to his friends. His response had been sarcastic, born out of still being high. She was no longer engaged, he knew, but he had not seen her since the wedding either.

Later that night he had been shot and seriously injured, although she never knew by whom, and a week later he had escaped the hospital and had collapsed at Baker Street and was brought to Barts for a very long recovery. He had hardly been released from hospital at Christmas when he made his move on Magnussen, and realizing he had been outplayed, felt no choice but to shoot Magnussen in order to stop the blackmailing once and for all. It had all been swept under the rug by the government, but he had told Molly nothing, not that he ever did tell her much from his personal life anyhow. He did tell her, however, that he was being sent undercover for six months, and he had told her that he didn't think he was coming back to England ever again. He had only told her that on the phone, not in person. Once again he suggested she not keep waiting for him, and this time she pleaded, "Don't do this again! Don't!"

His voice wavered when he said, "Goodbye, Molly." He was losing all his friends, and his heart was breaking into thousands of little pieces.

He had been aware during John and Mary’s wedding how much Molly had watched him, and although her fiancé had been by her side, she only had eyes for Sherlock. He realized that her flame for him had never been fully extinguished and likely never would be.

Then as if by miracle, Moriarty's face had shown up on all media all over the country, and Sherlock's mission had been cancelled. He was back. His heart had been ripped one way and then another, as had hers.

He hadn't used her flat as a bolt hole since returning after disassembling Moriarty's network primarily because of her engagement to Tom and that Tom often spent the night, and then after John and Mary's wedding Sherlock's life had taken a very different turn anyhow.

When he had come in for his wound check, they had worked out a new set of text codes for various situations. He only said them once to her and was a little surprised that she instantly remembered them..

When the SOMEWHERE IN TIME text came in, she had to fight the impulse not to text him at all, because her heartbeat quickened suddenly and she was certain she flushed. Things were different between them now, and she hoped the text had different context and subtext behind it. She desperately wanted to leave work at that moment, but she still had another hour on her shift. At half past the hour, however, she could no longer watch the seconds tick by slowly. She made her excuses and left the hospital for home.

She stood on her balcony in her diaphanous long night gown that clung to every curve of her slender frame and left nothing to the imagination. Above her the skies rumbled with the threat of a storm. A wind billowed the gown behind her, and her long hair whipped around her face as if in a whirlwind. He was out there somewhere. She stayed there for several minutes, but when the rain finally began to fall, she shivered and reluctantly turned and went back inside.

He had been to her street several nights in a row but had not worked up the courage to go into her flat since they had taken a tentative step in a new direction of their friendship. He had even seen her on her balcony, like the brave masthead on an old clipper ship. He had watched from the shadows and tried to calm his nervous heart, but somehow he could not make himself go up to her. He suspected what that would lead to. He could stare down a gun, brandish a sword, wrestle with a killer, even shoot to kill if necessary, but Molly was different. She was unfamiliar territory for his life experiences, and although standing on the precipice of a roof and leaping off had been more than terrifying, exposing the core of his heart in a first night of passion gave him great pause.

SOMEWHERE IN TIME. Her apartment was lit only by the fireplace and several candles. She had performed this ritual nightly ever since removing his microchip at Barts, and she hoped he would come to her, but the hour had grown late, and it was looking more like he would not arrive despite the fact that she had not received a cancellation text, not that she was ever entirely certain what to expect from him anyhow.

“Molly.”

She gasped and turned around to see him move out of the shadows like a phantom. That is how he always came to her, whether secretly at Barts or the times he used her apartment as a bolt hole. It never stopped being startling, and she wished he would not do it that way, but that was his way when stealth was required. It was not as if he had scaled the building and crawled in through a window, however. He had had a key for over three years. He crossed the room slowly and stopped directly in front of her. She was not sure what to say but she swallowed hard in effort to control her sudden rapid breathing, and she was still shivering. She was certain he could see it.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” he asked quietly. He noticed the candles but discounted them although he knew there were eight. He did not understand the romantic mood she was attempting to create and so he ignored it.

“I thought maybe you changed your mind.” she said a little nervously. It was one thing to stand on the balcony when he was not there, but it was another thing to be standing in front of him so exposed. Several thoughts raced through her mind including that this might not have been such a good idea.

“I had to make arrangements.” he said.

“Are you certain you haven’t been followed?”

“Yes.” he assured her. He could never be 100% certain, but he had done enough tube and taxi transportation to throw anyone off his scent.

“So your chip--”

“Making its way via train to Aberdeen. Should be back within forty-eight hours.”

"Glad tomorrow is the start of the weekend then." she said.

"I can't stay the whole weekend. Not this time. Someday."

"Until the morning at least?"

"At least."

There was a long moment of awkward silence. What was the next move? He was not certain if he was supposed to touch her, if he should say something that would only come out contrite, or if he should continue with his horrible attempt at chit-chat. He had not even removed his gloves or coat.

"So...is this a bolt hole night?" she asked tentatively. If so, she was terribly under-dressed.

"Yes. No. No!" he said quickly.

She smiled a little at his delightful awkwardness. "No need to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous." he insisted.

"I'm nervous too." she admitted, and he sighed a little with relief.

She took his hands and removed his gloves, setting them aside on the sofa. She slipped her hands beneath his coat collar and peeled it back, draping it over the back of the back of the sofa. His scarf was unknotted and laid on top of the coat, and his jacket was laid on top of that. She pulled his shirt out of the waist of his pants and began to unbutton it. His heart quickened and he breathed deeply and shut his eyes for a moment. She parted the front of his shirt to expose his chest, and she lightly touched his skin. He drew a sharp breath and immediately opened his eyes. Her touch was so gentle and her hands so warm. She touched his bullet scar and surgical incision from its removal and the repair of his liver months before, and he gasped not from pain but because it had become particularly sensitive since the surgery. She tenderly kissed his chest, and his heartbeat quickened again.

The Woman came to his mind. Irene Adler had said she would have him until he begged for mercy twice. For a fraction of a moment he was mentally aroused at the thought, and he had entertained the idea, wondering if she could have elicited that response from him, wanting her to try, but it was only a fraction of time, and he would not let her win the game of seduction – at least not at that moment. Truth was, however, that after rescuing Irene in Karachi that they had finally been able to spend a brief time together before he had called in some favors and had tucked her away in a witness protection program while at the same time falsifying a report of her death. He understood the term sapiosexual – attraction to intellect – but he had risked his own life to rescue her, and it had not been just for the attraction of mind. That had only been the beginning of attraction. He had scanned her body visually when first meeting her. He knew her measurements instantly, but he had not been aroused by her sexuality…for the most part.

After Irene’s rescue they were in a safe house for two days before she could be transitioned out of the country undercover, and those two days had tested every fiber of his willpower in a way that he had never been tested or tempted before. He had maintained a celibate lifestyle for the sake of his work. It was not that he did not have sexual desires, but that those desires and their accompanying emotions played havoc with his deductive reasoning. Irene had slept curled next to him the first night, and she awoke to find him studying her as if he’d never in his life been so close to a woman’s body to take the time to examine it in a non-clinical way. They were both fully clothed, but her clothing was not a hindrance to what he already knew of her. He wanted to touch her skin. He wanted to feel her skin against his skin. He wanted to feel his skin inside her skin.

She had recognized the look in his eyes. Sometimes she had seen that look in the eyes of her clients, but her dealings with her clients did not involve sex although sometimes they were sexually titillated from discipline they received from her. Her inaccessibility had only made her more desirable, but this was Sherlock, not a client. She sat up and straddled his hips, setting her weight down on him, and he caught his breath at the shockwave of pleasure that suddenly rippled through him. Only the fabric of his trousers was between them. In one quick move she pulled off her robe, and she was suddenly naked on top of him. It was a challenge. He sat up and quickly removed his shirt. She was inviting him to her body, and he was not certain where to begin. Those sexual desires he had so successfully kept at bay all his life now crippled him. It was not just the inexperience at sex but even the lack of time spent dwelling on it. She knew that too. First time clients who were not exactly sure what to expect from a session of discipline with her had that same look. He tentatively put his arms around her and drew her to his chest. Skin on skin. He placed his hands on her back and felt the creamy smoothness of her skin. It was the softest skin he’d ever felt, but his touch was unskilled, and she suddenly knew she could not go further.

She took his head in her hands and touched her forehead to his. “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” he had asked.

“It’s not that I can’t, and I know I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life, but I don’t think we should.” She had said as she gently stroked his cheek with one finger. “It’s not a game anymore, and you should reserve your gift for someone who is very special.”

“You’re very special.” He had said.

“But we can’t have a future together,” She had responded, “and I don’t want just one night with you.”

Her words were true and he knew it, but he had already committed his mind to the idea, and his body wanted the rest of it. “We can have this moment, Irene.”

“No. Save yourself for the right one. It’s not me, but I wish it was.” She moved off of him and put on her robe again.

Her words had made his heart crumble a little. He had actually been willing to shelve the intellectual in pursuit of the physical, and the door that he had been willing to open had now been closed to him, and there was no point in trying to force it open. That would just be begging, and he did not beg. Knowing that she was right, however, did not lessen the sting of rejection that he had felt.

They had mostly avoided each other the rest of their last day together. She had slept separate from him that night, but he had got up during the night and laid down next to her, pulling her tightly into his arms and wishing they had more time together.

They were picked up pre-dawn and flown by private jet to Istanbul. From there they boarded another private jet and flew to Prague, and then he put her on a commercial flight to Atlanta, Georgia, with a new identity. The last communication he’d had from her was the single red rose she’d sent to his hospital room after he had been shot by Mary Watson. He was not certain he’d call his feelings for her love, but he did care for her deeply, but he knew that she was right that they could never have a future together.

With Molly, however, there was no game of seduction, no matching of wits. He didn't have to prove himself smarter, for to her it was not a game. For her it was life. He once believed wholeheartedly that love was a dangerous disadvantage, but all the terse things he'd said to Irene did not apply to Molly. Although he could not say for certain what he was feeling for her was love since he had never allowed himself to pursue those feelings with a woman, neither could he deny that their friendship had a deep bond, deeper and different from his friendship with John. It was Molly he had trusted to keep his secrets, and to his knowledge, she still held the secrets. She was the one who mattered the most. How could he ever share the most private aspect of himself unless it was with the one who kept his secrets who mattered the most?

“If you make me wait one more second...” he said quietly.

She felt she could hardly breathe. “Your move,” she countered in barely a whisper.

Without a word he caught her up into his arms and carried her into her bedroom and kicked the door shut behind them. After a moment the door opened again, and her cat, Toby, was gently tossed out.

While she had often been awkward around him at Barts as she had tried to disguise her feelings for him, he discovered that night that she was confident in bed, and she became his guide and teacher in unlocking his prowess. Although he had initially attempted to feign the bravado and swagger of an experienced lover, his façade had quickly dissolved to being nothing short of discomfited and self-conscious. His occasional viewing of porn on John’s computer had little to do with the mechanics he now personally faced, but Molly made it all a non-issue. And there it was: he was touching her skin, his flesh was pressed to her flesh, his flesh was inside her flesh. Almost as soon at their intimacy began his ability to maintain control was overpowered by his sudden culmination which completely caught him off-guard with its intensity. Overcome with emotion, he gave into tears, and she comforted him for several minutes with soothing words and gentle caresses. The last time he had allowed himself to have such deep comfort from another human being was as a child, and the comfort had been given by his mother. It was only Mycroft’s relentless taunting by calling him a “stupid cry-baby” that led him to shun that kind of comfort in the future. Now, however, he gave himself over to it completely, his body, heart and soul laid bare to her. For all the years he had shunned touch and intimacy, he now was desperate for it, and Molly was the only one he trusted to give him what he needed. It was not just the intimacy, however, but that the intimacy had opened the floodgates of the isolation and loneliness he had felt for months, an isolation that only seemed to be worsening by the day. He needed it to stop, and being with Molly was the only way he could think to stop it. He had fought for years not to let caring and sentiment surface in his life because they got in the way of his cold, deductive reasoning, but his friendships with John, Lestrade, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and even Molly had been chipping away at his resolve. He needed them all. He needed touch to know he was still alive inside and not dying, because he felt as if his mortal soul was fading each moment, and he desperately wanted to live.

Molly sensed immediately that his tears were about something deep in his soul. It was the way he clung to her as he seemed to weep from the core of his being. She tried to comfort him as best she could, mostly with gentle strokes to his back and his head. She felt the scars from his beating in Serbia more than a year before, but she would ask him about them another time. He said her name over and over in the very way a child cries for his mother, and she waited patiently for him until the tears had exhausted him. When he became quiet and his breathing calmed, she did not begin trivial banter of “feel better?’ or “all right now?” She chose not to address it at all. She simply let him be and by doing so allowed him to know that she was completely there for him.

He laced the long fingers of his right hand with her delicate left hand and studied their hands together for several moments. He raised himself up slightly and looked at her, then leaned in for a deep, searching kiss as he pressed her hand back into the bed. By the morning his experience and technique in making love were more confident, and he knew what to do and how to do it in a way that was mutually satisfying. There were no more tears, only the blissful phenomenon of being one with her, and for those moments he felt completely safe and unfettered from the fear of Moriarty.

A crack of thunder like a gunshot. His eyes opened slowly as if he’d been drugged and was fighting his way out of a stupor. A ceiling fan rotated slowly above. He did not have a ceiling fan. He blinked a few times. Definitely a ceiling fan above him. He could not recall where he was for several moments. He looked to his right. A dresser with nondescript items. He could not even see them clearly. He blinked a few more times, the desire to sleep wanting to pull him down. A light pattern from a window fell onto the dresser and he turned his head to the left. Window. Curtains. The sound of rain on the glass. Pictures on the wall. Pictures of what he could not tell. His eyes did not want to focus.

That is when he saw her. Her back was turned to him as she slept between the same sheets. Now he was suddenly wide awake. Wide awake. That hair. He knew that long, silky chestnut hair. That delicate scent. Images flashed rapidly through his mind of a night of intense love making. He cleared his throat. “Molly.” Even his voice sounded deeper than usual, throaty and unawake. “Molly.”

She turned to him and smiled, then moved up next to him and put her arm over his chest.

“What time is it?”

She lifted her head a little and squinted at the clock on the table beside the bed. “Half past ten.”

He drew in a sharp breath, startled at the news. “What time did we go to sleep?”

“About 3:00 A.M. I think.” she said.

That explained the feeling of being drugged. He never slept more than four hours, and that was on a good night.

“Molly,” he said quietly. ‘Last night…”

“What about last night?” she said sleepily.

“My brain is so clouded I can’t think. Very odd.”

“Hormones.” she said. “Nothing but a pure chemical reaction. I guess you had a lot of chemical saved up.”

That made him laugh a little. “Yes I did.” He sighed deeply and said, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For not making me feel inept.”

“Why would you think you’re inept?”

“First time and all.” He said simply. The words did not roll easily off his tongue. He was almost embarrassed to say them.

“Your body knew what to do. You just had to relax and let it, and you did and it was amazing. You even surprised me a few times.”

“With what?” he asked.

“With how you knew just where to kiss my neck and how to touch me, and you did that little grinding thing that nearly made me crawl out of my skin.”

“Yes, you were rather vocal about that.”

“You were quite vocal too,” she smiled. “I liked hearing you.” He made a deep, low murmur and smiled a little, and she rose and straddled his body. “I want to hear you again.”

His cell phone buzzed then. It was Mycroft. He motioned Molly quiet and still. “Blood.”

“You’re laying down, and you sound like you’ve just woken up.”

“Long ride on the train and I didn’t get to the hotel until late,” he replied simply as he groaned and sat up.

“Yes, why are you in Aberdeen?” Mycroft asked.

“Why do you think I’m here? I’m on the case.”

“There were never any Moriarty network leads in Aberdeen when he was alive. Why would they be there now?”

“I only follow leads that I rank above a seven. You know that.”

“What leads, Sherlock?”

“It will all be in my report.”

Molly scratched her arm and tried to take an extremely quiet breath, but Mycroft picked up on the slight sounds.

"Is there someone there with you?”

“Room service just arrived. Laters, Mycroft.” He ended the call, then laughed a bit.

"What are you so happy about?” Molly asked.

“He thinks I’m not in London. That proves to me that he is still monitoring my every move. Probably gets hourly updates on my whereabouts. I'll have to think of some ways to mess with his head about that one. Now, where were we?”

She gently pushed him back down and kissed his neck just below his ear, nibbling the soft flesh, and he groaned, his eyes rolling back into his head. They made love again and they slept a little more, but when she awoke he was gone. Gone as silently as he had arrived. She pulled his pillow close and breathed in his lingering scent. She wanted to phone him but she knew she did not dare to. Except for the times they would be at the Bart’s lab at the same time, they would have no other contact outside of her flat.

He returned for several successive nights although he always left before sunrise while his chip made different routes through London. Each night with Molly brought a greater physical intensity, like a ravenous hunger that could not be satiated. At first she attributed it to him making up for lost time, but by the sixth night, she actually had to stop him because there was an edge of aggression that had begun to creep in, and she did not like it and would not tolerate it. Although she did not feel as if she were in physical danger exactly, there was undeniable tension from the darkness of his soul, and it was quickly evident that he was using her as a tension reliever. She had to refocus him and create boundaries, and she took him back to the basics of their first night together, and that seemed to help.

Then there were the nightmares. They did actually sleep some, but he was often startled awake with panicked breathing or his dreams were so distressing that he whimpered and grimaced through them. It had not happened on their first night together, but it had started to creep into the other nights so much so that she was not getting much sleep either. He accepted her comfort on the first time but grew more anxious and determined to handle it on his own. On the fourth night he sat on the edge of the bed, shook his head and ruffled his hair as if he could shake the visions from his brain. Molly knelt behind him and wrapped her arms around him. “What do you dream about?”

“It’s nothing.” He insisted, but when he awoke in terror less than an hour later, he kept one hand over his stomach and insisted, “I’m shot! I’m bleeding!”

“No!” she tried to calm him. “You’re not shot. You’re not bleeding. It was a long time ago.”

He looked at his hands. “Blood. So much blood. I’m dying.”

“No blood,” she assured him. “Sherlock. Look at me. Wake up. No blood.”

Night terrors. He blinked several times and looked at his hands again and then at his stomach. No wound. No blood. He groaned as if in agony and rolled away from her. She moved up behind him and wrapped one arm around him while the other wrapped around the top of his head and she gently stroked her fingers through his curls. Somehow she had never pictured this side of him. “Can you get John to write you a script for something to help you sleep?” she asked softly.

“I don’t like those things in my system unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He said.

“Is there anyone you can talk to about these nightmares?”

“You.” He said quietly.

"But I don't know how to fix this.” she said quietly. She gently ran her fingers over the scars on his back, scars from the brutal beating he'd received in Serbia before returning to Britain less than two years before. Those scars were easy to see and had healed long before. It was the scars and wounds she couldn't see that concerned her the most. She kissed the back of his shoulder. “All I can do is love you. And I do love you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know.” He said quietly. He did know that she had those feelings, but he was not entirely sure how to process them from her. He had never said the words I love you to her, not even in the height of passion. Although she said “I love you” countless times during their intimacy, her words did not trigger the same response from him. He felt a genuinely intense fondness for her, and he trusted her completely, but he was not entirely certain that he understood the “in love” aspect of love, and he felt that until he did, it was best not to say the words. The thought occurred to him that they were probably using each other, and that was the most dangerous game of love to play since the potential damage could be catastrophic for both.

He lay wide awake while she slept next to him. Little tendrils of doubt regarding building a relationship were beginning to wrap themselves around his heart, and he could not cut them down fast enough. He was inadequate for her needs and desires, and he would be that way for anyone. So why had he let things go this far? What had he done?


	6. Chapter 6

_The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it. – Albert Einstein_

When Sherlock had faked his own death and they had taken his apparently bloodied and battered body into Barts, he did not have the luxury of staying around to see Moriarty’s body brought down. He did not even know how long Moriarty’s body was on the roof before it was discovered, but he assumed it was not too long. He had been moved into a surgical suite where an MI6 team met him and helped him to clean up and change quickly, and then they ushered him incognito out of the hospital and off to a secret location. All photographs of his bloodied body had already been staged earlier with Molly and an MI6 photographer. X-rays of broken bones and fatal skull fractures were put into his file. John did not need to see the body in the morgue. To him, he had seen the dead body on the pavement outside of pathology. He’d checked Sherlock’s pulse and found none, and he had not felt the need to see his bashed up friend, even when the body had been cleaned of blood. Molly gently persuaded him to try to remember Sherlock the way he was, not the way he looked at the end, and John’s grief had compelled him not to look on the face of his friend again. He did not want to have any worse memories of the incident than he already had. There had been no memorial service for Sherlock, only a funeral.

With Moriarty, however, there was a gaping hole in the back of his skull, and he had bled out on the roof of pathology, little bits of brain matter floating away in the blood flow. That had not been part of any scenario Sherlock had planned for on the roof, and it had completely shocked and disoriented him for several moments. It was going to be difficult enough to have to perform the jump and deceive John with a fake death until Moriarty’s network was taken down, but the suicide had put him into a temporary panic, and he had almost lost his nerve to lie to John that everything about him was fake. He had looked back. Moriarty was still dead on the roof. He had not so much as twitched, the gun still in his cold, dead hand, his pupils blown.

Mycroft was suspicious about any Moriarty connection in Aberdeen, made more so by the fact that Sherlock’s GPS on his mobile phone was turned off. He had mentioned to his colleagues that he felt Sherlock’s location should always be double verified by both the chip and his phone, but they had thought the chip was plenty. It was only moments after hanging up with Sherlock, however, that he received a notice from the Hilton Garden Inn in Aberdeen that Mycroft’s credit card had been charged for a 2-night stay in the city. Sherlock rarely put that sort of expense on his own credit card simply because he never wanted to have to fill out expense reports at the end of a case. Mycroft had people who could handle that.

He did suspect something was slightly off with Sherlock’s story, however, but his suspicions were not strong enough to pursue the matter. However, he would ask Sherlock to turn on his GPS in the future so that his chip and his phone would match the same location.

For Sherlock, there was the matter of who had claimed Moriarty’s body, and Lestrade’s team was moving far too slowly for him. He needed answers, and the case that had brought him back to English soil was dragging. In truth, the best cases he took on often lasted for months due to the legwork involved or the unavailability of information. Internet was helpful to a point but could still reach a dead-end and often the desired end result was not achieved by following a straight path.

Sherlock walked into the silence of The Diogenes Club. To his right was a parlor of several elderly men reading newspapers. To his left a long corridor. He waited for a moment and sighed deeply, mostly to purposefully annoy the reading men, and after another few moments he was escorted quietly down the corridor to a large room. Mycroft was there, and he was none too pleased. As soon as the doors closed and they were left alone, he motioned Sherlock to a chair near the hearth.

Sherlock sat down and then poured himself a cup of tea while Mycroft quickly checked a text that came in.

SH CONFIRMED AT DIOGENES.

Mycroft pursed his thin lips and sat down opposite Sherlock. “Why aren't you in Ireland?” Mycroft asked.

“Why would I be in Ireland?” Sherlock asked.

“Must you be so blind? Moriarty is an Irish name. An Irish Catholic name, to be specific.” Mycroft said almost smugly. He loved to point out Sherlock’s slowness when he could.

“Your point being, Mycroft?”

“How many Irish Catholic families do you know that have only one child?”

“The supposed Moriarty family members who claimed his body have turned out to be fictional. For all we know it’s not even his real name. Even if it were, do you have any idea how many people there are in Ireland with the name Moriarty?”

“And that’s why you should be there, not here. Not on some spurious excursion to Aberdeen, if you were really there.”

“What do you mean if?” Sherlock set his tea cup down.

“How are you sleeping these days, Sherlock? Are you sleeping at all? You’ve spent a lot of nights out in London since you’ve been back. All night. And yet here you are. Fresh as an English rose.”

“Unlike some people in this room, I don’t choose to waste eight hours of my day in the land of winkin,’ blinkin,’ and nod. Dulls the senses. You should know.”

Mycroft bristled a little but dared not raise his voice. “From now on you will turn on your phone’s GPS to match the location of your chip.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Your conditions of pardon required that you be tracked, and you know it.”

“And you track me. No doubt that text you received confirmed that I am indeed here.” Sherlock leaned forward in his chair. “Just remember, Mycroft, that whoever is this new threat to England is also tracking me, and that makes it rather difficult for the element of surprise and stealth. In fact, it puts me directly in his cross-hairs at all times. Perhaps that was your secret plan? Am I even expected to survive this homeland mission? Good thing my will is in order.” There was a bitter edge to his voice.

Mycroft hesitated, then pulled two USA passports out of the inside of his jacket plus two plane tickets. “As you seem to be unable to make any progress in this case, you and your wife will be making a trip to Dublin to investigate your ancestry. Do brush up on your American accent.”

“My wife?” He picked up the passports and looked at them. One was his face with the name “Joseph James Moriarty” and the other was for Anthea, and her new name was “Maggie Louise Moriarty.”

“You’re a lovely American couple on an anniversary holiday in Ireland to do some genealogical research. You have two young children, both staying with their grandparents in Orlando, Florida. You teach advanced chemistry at the University of Illinois in Chicago, and she is a part-time art teacher in their version of primary school.” He laid a file in front of Sherlock. “Read up, and be in Ireland within forty-eight hours.”

“I don’t need an undercover wife story.” Sherlock bristled, “Especially not your goldfish.”

“She’s a highly qualified agent, Sherlock, and quite the crack shot as I understand from the reports. Do be good to her and return her to me in one piece.”

Sherlock stood up. “I prefer the ferry from Liverpool. And no, I will not turn on my GPS. That was not part of our agreement.” He began to walk out of the room.

Mycroft stood up. “Sherlock, I expect your complete compliance with my request.”

Sherlock said nothing else as he let himself out of the room. He thought he heard Mycroft mutter, “Damn you,” but he did not turn back and continued down the hall, letting himself out of the club. His cab was waiting out front, and he got back into it. “221B Baker Street,” he said simply and the cab began to drive away.

Sherlock leaned back in the seat. _Ireland._ That had not been on his agenda. Neither had Anthea. Although he did not know much about her at all, he suspected that she did not regard him highly, and he likewise had always considered her little more than Mycroft’s assistant. Before he left for Ireland, however, he had a few bits of business to take care of.

That afternoon the Watsons had a small gathering at home in celebration of the baby, and a few of their close neighbors as well as friends attended the small gathering. Although Mary had had a baby shower, there were still new gifts. Sherlock had not particularly wanted to attend. If weddings were not his scene, then baby welcomings were even further from his level of comfort. Plus there would be people he did not know and he would be lost in the crowd. He told them he would come, however, but that he could not stay long. Although he spoke with Mary frequently on the phone, he had not actually seen her since the day of his pardon at the airfield, and he did miss her. He asked Mrs. Hudson to pick out an appropriate gift to bring since that was completely out of his area, and she handed him a beautifully wrapped box as they got into a cab. He shook the box. “Clothing of some sort, not too ghastly I hope.”

“Some lovely little dresses she’ll be able to wear when she’s about six months old.” She said.

“They’ll know I didn’t pick that out!” he groused.

“I think they’d know that about any gift you brought, dear.” She said as she patted his arm in a maternal fashion.

The fence and walkway up to the Watson’s front door were decorated with streamers and “Welcome baby” banners and balloons in various pastels accentuated with lots of pink.

The inside of the house was decorated in much the same fashion, but now there were people, lots of people in a somewhat confined space. Some he knew, some he did not. He immediately began to filter the conversations, but John beamed when he saw him. “Glad you could make it. I know this isn’t really your thing.”

“And where is my namesake exactly?” he asked.

“Mary’s just changing Elizabeth, and she’ll be right out.” John said.

Sherlock handed John his gift. “Mrs. Hudson picked it out for me. Happy baby homecoming whatever.”

“Thank you. I’m sure if Mrs. Hudson picked it out, it’ll be perfect.” John said.

Molly came out of the kitchen then with a tray of appetizers, and she startled to see Sherlock, as did he with her, but she regained her composure and simply offered him an appetizer, which he declined, and she continued around the room, not making further eye contact.

Mary walked into the room with a very small bundle in her arms, much to the expressed delight of all the guests. Sherlock tried to steal a glance at the child, but Mary was surrounded immediately. She caught Sherlock’s gaze, however, and winked, blowing him a kiss. She truly loved him as a friend, and she slowly made her way over to him until she stood directly in front him. If radiance and beauty could be found in one person, he thought for that brief moment, that they were embodied perfectly in Mary. He had never seen her look so happy, and he could not help but smile to her. “You look lovely,” he said softly and he leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Oh gosh, I haven’t slept a full night for days,” she countered. She gently transferred the infant into his arms, though he was clearly mortified to hold the infant. She helped move his arms and hands into the correct position. “That’s right. Support her head and body like that.”

“Mary, I—“ he was at a loss, so out of his element. His entire body froze.

“You’re doing fine,” she assured him. She leaned in close and said quietly, “I wanted her first name to be Sherilyn, but John wouldn’t have it, so we compromised.”

Molly glanced up and saw him holding the baby. She smiled a little and put her hand over her heart. It was endearing, even if he clearly was uncomfortable. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and took a quick picture. He noticed and shot her a stern glare, but she was not the only one taking pictures.

Sherlock did look down at the infant. She was smaller than he thought she would be, and she blinked at him with large, blue eyes that squinted in the light. She was calm and even yawned and stretched, one little hand coming to rest and then grip his little finger for a moment. And she fell asleep. There was a collective “awww!” around the room. Sherlock remained rooted to the spot. He’d barely breathed since she had been forced into his arms, and now he wanted her out of his arms.

“She likes you,” Mary smiled. “Uncle Sherlock.”

“Mary, please.” He insisted, and she gently took the infant from his arms. He took a deep breath of relief and let it out slowly. He clasped his hands behind his back. He was not going to let that happen again.

He stayed for only half an hour and then made his excuses. He left Mrs. Hudson to John’s care, and John promised to drive her home after it was all done. As soon as he was out of the house, he pulled out his cell phone.

SOMEWHERE IN TIME. SH

Inside the Watsons' home, Molly’s cell phone buzzed, and she looked at it and saw his text message. She had not even seen him leave, and now he was suddenly gone.

Sherlock sent his chip on a new route through London that night. His homeless network took great care of his “package,” because it often meant that one or two of them got a very good meal when they took it to a nice restaurant before the chip was transferred to another carrier. It quickly became a sought after privilege to carry the package. Of course, there was always the chance that it would somehow get lost, but he tried to push that thought out of his mind. He had other matters to attend to.

He arrived at Molly’s flat with two bags of Chinese take-out which surprised her since he had never brought over a meal before. “What’s the occasion?” she asked.

“Won’t be around for a bit.” He said.

Her heart sank instantly. “What does that mean?”

“Need to go to Ireland on the Moriarty case. Don’t quite know how long I’ll be gone.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Ireland. I thought you were going to say undercover in Eastern Europe.” She gave him a sweet kiss and a little embrace, then took the food from him and began to open the bags.

“No, I hope those days are over,” he said. He grimaced and added, “Mycroft is getting suspicious about the tracking on my chip. Not sure how much longer I can keep up the ruse. Might have to play it safe for a while. Ireland should help.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Hopefully not long. A week or two at most, I should think.”

“And when do you leave?”

“Tomorrow. Still have to pack.”

“Does this mean you won’t stay the night?”

He looked at all the food but somehow knew he would not be eating it. “Molly, when I said before that things would get compromised, they have been. My work has been compromised. You know how difficult it can be for me to concentrate after…after. I lay the blame solely on me. I’ve heard that some footballers don’t do it the night before a big game because it throws their game off. I always thought that was rubbish, but it may not be.”

“What’s really wrong?” she asked, and he knew instantly that she had seen through his excuses. “The footballer thing is a load of rubbish, but we don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. Let’s just eat, and we can play some poker afterwards.”

They played poker on occasion, and although he considered himself an expert player, he found himself being beaten more often than he should have been by this little slip of a woman. He was certain he was not letting her win, and it irritated him that he could not read her poker face.

He cleared his throat and struggled carefully to put together his next words. “Molly, today at the Watsons. You should know that I have never desired to be a father, nor do I ever intend to be one, so please don’t get any romantic notions about me in that role just because I had my namesake forced on me.”

She opened the takeout containers and set them on the table, then brought out the dishes and set the table. “Oh, it was a darling moment.”

“No, it was uncomfortable and awkward.”

“It might have helped if you were sitting down.” Molly said.

“No.” he insisted. “No.”

“Is that really the first time you ever held a baby? In your whole life?”

He shrugged a little and held out his hands in defeat.

“So, if I got pregnant, how would you respond?”

That caught his attention. “What?”

“I’m just asking.” She said almost nonchalantly as she served him a plate. “It happens. Sit. Eat.”

He continued to process her words and did not sit. “We’ve been careful.”

“Not every time,” she said. “So, what if I were?”

“Are you?”

“No,” she said instantly.

The wheels were still turning, and he was more confused by the moment. “Why would you ask that if you weren’t? Are you wanting to be?”

“No,” she insisted. “Never mind. Eat before it gets cold.”

He remained firmly rooted to the spot, however. The wheels continued to turn, and he looked at her. He was completely confused, and he did not like that feeling. Her "never mind" was also just as disturbing, and all the searching of his mind palace did not offer him a frame of reference. He had to know. “Tell me what you really mean.”

“Sorry,” she said. “It was purely hypothetical.”

“Babies are not hypothetical. Don’t be hypothetical about them.”

“Sorry.” She said quietly.

He sensed that in some way he had not quite handled that right. “Molly,” he said softly, “what we have…what we are… it has become the most guarded part of my life, and every day I worry that somehow I will give us away. Imagine how much harder it would be for both of us if there was a child. Please don’t harbor those romantic notions about me. I would only sadly disappoint you, I’m afraid.”

To hear him speak those words was a bit of a dagger to her heart because she did have a very romanticized idea of him being a very good father and that perhaps someday they would marry and settle into domestic bliss and raise a few children. The man who stood beside her, however, was far from that vision and had just put up a huge wall between her and the idea of what she believed possible. He saw the tears in her eyes and added softly, “I’m sorry, but it’s who I am. I can’t change that. So it’s better that we have this in the open between us. If it’s children and a husband you want, I can’t be that person for you.”

“Just stop.” She said turned to him then with tears in her eyes. “Have you already decided that what we have is too much for you to handle? Have you tired of me and already found someone else?”

That look of confusion again. He blinked rapidly several times. He was terrible at processing conversation with emotional content. That required the skill of solving the puzzles of subtext, and he was especially unskilled in that area. He preferred his information streamlined and accessible. He had always thought pure logic could decipher any situation with a woman despite hearing that a woman could never be fully understood, and he was beginning to realize that pure logic was a poor choice for handling this situation even though he did not know what the solution was.

“I only brought food. I thought we would have a nice dinner. What the hell just happened?”

“I guess I’m waiting for the hammer to fall, Sherlock. I’m waiting for you to find any excuse why we will never work out.”

“Why? Because other men have treated you like that? So you are anticipating that I will do the same? Perhaps you need to ask yourself if you are subconsciously trying to sabotage your relationships with men. ” He scolded in a paternal, authoritative way. That stunned her into silence and when she was about to speak he held up one finger and shook his head. He was right, and she needed to process it, despite the fact that he could have been a little kinder with his words. He softened his tone a little. “Molly, my work is my driving life force. It will always come first. My work is a fierce mistress or wife, if you prefer. Please understand.”

“I do understand,” she said quietly.

“Molly, I may not understand the way your mind thinks all the time – most of the time. Supposedly that’s normal about men and women. What I’m trying to say is that I am clumsy and awkward at this, but that doesn’t mean you’re not important to me.”

She wanted to point blank ask him if he loved her, but since he was not forthcoming with the words, there was no use. She was not going to try to force the words out of him. She pressed herself close and wrapped her arms around him. He still had not removed his coat. “Will we ever be able to share our secret?”

“I don’t know, but this is the burden we must both bear until I decide that it is safe. Will you let me protect you that way?” He wrapped both his arms around her and held her tightly and heard her whisper, “yes.”

Molly, however, had not been entirely truthful, and as soon as he left a few hours later, she went into the bathroom and removed a pregnancy test out of the back recesses of the cabinet beneath the sink. She had a suspicion and needed it confirmed. Her cycle was always like clockwork except for now. She was late. Several minutes later she had her confirmation. It was positive.

She purchased several more pregnancy tests the following day and used all of them with the same result. She was definitely pregnant. She disposed of all evidence of the tests in the Bart’s medical waste bins. She did not want Sherlock to find so much as a receipt. She knew immediately that she would carry the pregnancy. There was simply no way on earth she would ever terminate his child even though she did not know how it was going to work since he clearly did not want children. Perhaps she would move, find another job at a hospital in a distant city, but she would not sacrifice his genes to abortion. His genes were precious to her, and she would keep it. She would raise the child on her own if she had to, and she was determined to never ask him for financial help if he were not interested in raising the child with her. She knew the decision to keep the child could sever their relationship, but she would not destroy that part of him that was now growing inside her.

For now, however, she would not tell him. It would be a while before she started to show, and if she could avoid morning sickness, she might have a chance of keeping the secret from him for a while if at all possible.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock drove the rented car onto the P&O freight ferry in Liverpool. He had dyed his hair auburn, and the few faint freckles he had suddenly seemed more noticeable. In fact, it made his entire complexion seem slightly ruddy. He also wore colored contacts that made his eyes a very vibrant green. Anthea could hardly contain her smirk when she first saw him, but she did not say a word about it until they were actually in the rental car and driving to the docks. She could not resist touching his curls. “You left the dye in too long. It’s like straw, and I can still smell the chemicals. I’ll get you some good shampoo and conditioner in Dublin.”

“Pick up something to help my scalp stop burning while you’re at it,” he added as he lightly scratched his scalp. He had definitely left the dye in too long.

While flying to Dublin would have been more expedient, Sherlock always preferred the ferries. They gave him more time to think things through, and there was something about the smell of the cold salt water that stirred his soul. They were not but a few miles off shore when the English and Welsh coastlines completely disappeared from view and there was nothing but the Irish Sea on all sides. They could have been in the middle of a great ocean and not known any different.

The waters were rough but that did not bother Sherlock as he stood at the railing with his eyes closed. For a moment his mind wandered off course, and he found himself the captain of a pirate ship. He was Captain Redbeard, commander of a band of cutthroat scalawags who marauded the seas for Spanish treasure ships.

He startled and tensed out of his reverie when he felt an arm go around his waist. Anthea leaned close. He knew his role in the charade, and he put his arm around her and placed a kiss on the top of her head. His hand rested over something hard inside her coat. She was carrying a gun. “If you attempt anything tonight, I won’t hesitate to shoot you,” she said softly with a fake smile.

He winked and gave her bottom a little pat. “Oh I wouldn’t dream of it, my darling.” He popped his collar up and took her hand. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s get some coffee.”

“I don’t like coffee. You should know that.” She said.

“The coffee’s not for you. You should know that.” He said crisply.

He led her back inside of the ship, and they continued their charade as a happily married couple, even pulling out pictures of their “children” and telling all sorts of marvelous stories about them to the other passengers. To the untrained eye, they seemed like a happily married couple, but to the trained eye, there was something off center about them. There was someone watching them, someone with a trained eye, and that someone was not only watching them, but studying them.

They arrived at the Maldron Hotel Parnell Square several hours later and were taken up to a nice suite with a king-sized bed and plenty of room for living and work space, and as soon as the door closed and they were left alone, Anthea said, “Right or left side of the bed? Oh sorry, I forgot.”

It was a dig at his supposed virginity and he knew it, and he moved towards her. He was a formidable presence when he chose to be, and this was one of those times. “Let’s be quite clear about a few things since we’re working together: don’t underestimate me, and don’t believe everything my brother has told you about me. My brother may have sent you to babysit me, and I promised him I would send you back in one piece, but don’t make me regret that. Are we clear?”

She did not flinch. “You might think I’m nothing but your brother’s personal assistant, but don’t cross me, and for certain don’t double cross me. Unlike you, I actually have a license to kill, and I’m not afraid to exercise it.”

He took a step closer which forced her to back up. “Rookie mistake number one: never admit your qualifications. Mistake number two—“ he took another step forward and forced her backwards again. She backed up to the edge of the bed and was forced to sit down. “—never tell someone you’re going to kill them. Never warn them. Just do it. I’ve faced a shooter before. I’ve been shot at and shook hands with death, but you… you’ve never actually pulled the trigger on someone, have you? Have you?”

She met his fierce, piercing glare. “I’m not afraid to do it.”

“Yes you are. That’s why you’ve been relegated to working for my brother. Good enough to pass your training but MI6 doesn’t have the confidence to send you out into the field by yourself. So my dear brother puts you in my charge to spy on me.”

“To assist you.” She insisted. “I am not your underling.”

He leaned in very close, his breath warm by her ear. His voice was low and almost intoxicating, and its rich baritone rumbled through her like the vibrations of a plucked piano string. “You’re so green I could grind and bang you hard all night long like a rutting bull, until your legs were shaking so badly you couldn’t stand up afterwards, and rest assured, sweetheart, I do get _very_ hard, and you’d comply because you’d think it was part of the job…and because it would be the best sex you ever had.” There was a time he would never have spoken such words with authority, but he knew what they meant now, and he could wield them like a weapon. Clearly his words hit the target because she took a deep, shuddering breath and was completely caught off-guard. He took a step back and said simply, “I generally sleep on my right side, so I will take the left side of the bed.”

Their sleeping arrangement was very business-like. She slept between the sheets on her side, but he slept between the top sheet and the duvet on his side, each nearly to the edge of the bed with a vast space between them. He, however, did not sleep. He startled awake several times after only minutes of sleep. He did not want Anthea to witness his sleeping problems, but he had to find a way to sleep or he knew he’d be useless. He picked up his phone and texted.

M. NEED SOME. WHERE IN DUBLIN? SH

He waited several minutes but did not get a response. Damn. He quietly got up from bed and began to get dressed. Somewhere out there was someone who could provide him with morphine. It would not be hard to find a dealer. Drug dealers could be found in the same types of areas in every city. He had barely put on his long coat, however, when Anthea stirred and sat up.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I need to be alone,” he insisted. He did not turn to face her. “I’m certain you’ve been informed that I often roam the city at night. It’s what I do. It’s how I think best.”

“No,” she said and she got up and pulled a robe around her. “It’s how you run. You want some morphine to sleep? You’re off to get some then?”

Her words cut right through him, but he knew that she knew intimate details about his habits, even the bad ones. She undoubtedly knew facts that Molly would not dream of, and that was one of the reasons why he did not want Anthea on the case with him.

“You can trust me,” she said.

“Trust.” He turned to face her. “No. Never. Never. You have a role to play. Don’t confuse it for one moment with friendship. You have no friends in MI6. Don’t they teach you this in training? Don’t they teach you that everyone is a potential mole or double agent? We will not be friends. Ever. It’s a solitary life. That’s why you’re suited to work with my brother. No attachments.”

“He’s attached to you. He cares very much about you.”

“We will not discuss what feelings my brother may or may not have. Go back to bed. I’ll return by breakfast.” He started for the door.

“If you return and you’re high, your brother will be notified. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.“ She walked over to him and gently touched his arm. “England needs you, Mr. Holmes, and it needs you sober. The Moriarty web is trying to rebuild itself, and unless you dismantle it now, England will be at the epicenter of a great fall for all the nations. The sleeper cells have all risen to power in the countries where you once dismantled them.”

He turned to face her again. “How do you know these things?”

“Because after you returned from your MI6 undercover work and resumed your normal life as a consulting detective, we never stopped watching Moriarty’s old network. We knew they were still out there. You dismantled the main framework and scattered them, but they have rebuilt. We just don’t know who is leading them.”

“James Moriarty is dead.”

“A dead man can lead a revolution as much as a living man.”

There was truth to that and he knew it. He sighed tensely. “I’m sorry to keep you awake. The not sleeping is my problem.”

“Is there anything I can do to help? Bedtime story? Massage? Glass of warm milk?”

“No, I’m going out.” He quickly turned and walked out of the room. Anthea waited for a few minutes, thinking he might change his mind and return, but he did not. She picked up her cell phone and texted Mycroft.

BLACKBIRD HAS FLOWN. SHOULD I FOLLOW?

She waited for a few more minutes knowing that her text had probably awoken Mycroft and that he would not be entirely pleased.

WE ARE MONITORING FLIGHT PATH. STAY. MH

On a rooftop opposite the hotel, a cell phone with satellite tracking monitored a small blip. It was replaced by the cross-hairs of a high-powered scope, but Sherlock hurried so quickly out of the hotel below and into the waiting taxi that a clean shot could not be taken.

The taxi took him to an area near the docks, and he got out and found himself in familiar yet unfamiliar territory. His heartbeat quickened, his eyes quickly looked at everything while his brain made countless deductions and assessments about his surroundings. It was not a place for the inexperienced.

There had been a time when his drug habit had been more severe. Although he had occasionally dabbled with drugs in his days at university, using himself as a test subject, it had not been until he had his graduate degree in chemistry that he found himself thrust into the world of a confusing assault of interviews for jobs that held no interest for him. There was absolutely nothing redeeming in the job market, and he was too clever for anyone who ever interviewed him. He was highly sought after but no one could tolerate him, and he had specifically made it a point to be unsociable. The slight autism and Aspergers from Sherlock’s childhood began to overwhelm him, and Sherlock sought solace in cocaine to silence the outward manifestations. Sherlock knew the stress was triggering the more problematic areas of autism.

Although he was not terribly good at playing the ponies, he was nearly unbeatable at any card game which led to a brief foray into gambling. It earned him a little money but a lot of enemies since he could deduce what everyone’s cards were. Mostly he played games with Mycroft since his older brother provided the only real challenger although he hated losing to him.

Mycroft felt that MI6 training would help Sherlock to focus his intellect as well as give him a purpose, and he pulled the necessary strings to get his reluctant younger brother into the program. Although it was a program that Sherlock excelled at, and although he signed a five-year contract, it was apparent after only two years that it was not right fit for him when he had meltdown at HQ and was sent to hospital for two months. Whether it was stress from the work or drug-fueled was never exactly identified, but he had pulled a gun at HQ and threatened to shoot himself in the head if he was sent out on another mission. Mycroft arranged his release from the program with the understanding that Sherlock still owed three years of service and could be called upon at any time to fulfill them. However, Sherlock was under no time constraints to fulfill the owed service. Instead, he gave Sherlock government cases on the home front that were hardly stressful and simply needed legwork. It kept Sherlock busy and gave him income. Two of the years owed were fulfilled with his undercover work dismantling Moriarty’s network, but there was still approximately one year left of owed service, although his days in Ireland with Anthea would be counted against that time owed. He looked forward to the day when no service was owed and he was a truly free citizen of the realm again.

Sherlock was first arrested for drug use within six months of leaving MI6. Lestrade was the arresting officer, and that was their first meeting. Even high, Sherlock was able to deduce a surprising amount of personal information about Lestrade that left Lestrade slightly unnerved but also impressed. Lestrade recognized that Sherlock was not the typical junkie he normally pulled from the back alleys.

Sherlock had not been in jail for more than seventy-two hours before Mycroft arranged for all charges to be dropped, something else that Lestrade knew separated Sherlock from the others. Sherlock, it seemed, had a veil of protection around him that Scotland Yard could not quite touch. However, Lestrade was fascinated with Sherlock’s uncannily accurate deductions, and for a lark he put an unsolved murder case in Sherlock’s cell during the seventy-two hour hold. Within minutes Sherlock returned the file, explained where the investigation had gone wrong, who the murderer was and why. Lestrade had sat on the information for a few days, but on a burst of intuition that Sherlock might have got it right, he re-opened the case, and within two days had an arrest that led to a conviction and long prison term for the murderer. Lestrade soon learned that the tastier and more puzzling the case, the more Sherlock got “high” on the effort to solve it, to the point that the cocaine use slowed in favor or the new high, and he knew that if he kept Sherlock busy enough, the drugs would have less appeal. This turned out to be true, but Lestrade also knew that the drugs could come back at any time. Nevertheless, Sherlock seemed to find a new purpose in detective work, although he was not paid to consult. Mycroft quietly asked Lestrade to keep an eye on his brother, and that had been true for the past ten years.

Sherlock was not particularly proud of his failings with the MI6 program, and he had worked very hard ever since to gain control of his emotions. The hospital had tried to put him on medications, but when he discovered those medications interfered with his abilities, he refused to take them. Even though it had been many years since the MI6 meltdown, a slight meltdown had occurred with shooting Charles Augustus Magnussen, and Mycroft knew that somewhere buried deep within Sherlock was still a self-destruct mechanism, and Mycroft never knew what might set him off, if he could be set off again.

Something rattled in a nearby alley, and Sherlock turned towards the noise. A cat or large rat, perhaps. It seemed unusually quiet, and he walked towards the end of the street to find himself near a cemetery, and although cemeteries did not spook him, he began to sense that his late night walk was a very bad idea. That idea was confirmed within moments.

“Got a light, mate?” a voice asked him from behind, and he turned quickly to face a thin, disheveled man. Sherlock deduced instantly that he was not after a light for a cigarette, so he assumed instantly he was about to be robbed.

“No, you don’t smoke cigarettes. You prefer cigars, but you haven’t got one on you because no one smokes cigars at this time of night out here. No, you’re after something else. What is it you really want? Money? I’ve not got much. Cab fare is all.

“No, I want your coat.”

“Sorry, but you can’t have my coat,” he said. The click of a switchblade, and Sherlock saw the flash of metal in the moonlight. He held up his hands to show he was unarmed. “Oh is that really the best you can do?” he asked.

The man reached into his pocket and removed a small hand gun and pointed it directly at Sherlock. “The coat. Now.”

“You would shoot me for my coat? It’s just a coat. Why do you want my coat?” Sherlock persisted.

“Because I’m fecking cold.” The man cocked the trigger. “Take it off now!”

Sherlock took off the coat and handed it over to the man, then put his hands up again. The man put the coat on and began to back away, and when he was about thirty feet from Sherlock, he turned and ran. Sherlock gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with fury. He began to run after the thief. His chip was in that coat and he could not afford to lose it. He was gaining ground when shots rang out, and the thief suddenly collapsed dead on the street.

Sherlock ducked behind a wall, then peeked out. He could not see a shooter on a rooftop, but he knew he had to retrieve the coat. He made a mad dash for the body and unceremoniously began to pull of the coat. “Stupid, stupid fool!” he muttered angrily. Sirens could already be heard approaching, and he just barely got the coat removed as he ran for his life and ducked behind another wall. He put his coat on and began to run again. He did not know exactly where he was, but he knew if he continued to head west that he would find a major street and be able to hail a taxi.

He found a major street, but there was no taxi to be seen anywhere. His heart was pounding nearly through his chest, and he felt the genuine fear of mortal danger. He continued to run, retracing his steps. Siren lights and wails, and he ducked into a doorway out of the light, and as soon as they passed, he dashed out and continued running. He stumbled over a curb and went down hard, twisting his ankle, and he grimaced in pain. Car lights headed directly for him, and he could not get away fast enough. Someone grabbed him and pulled him out of the way just as the car roared past only inches from him with the horn blaring deafeningly.

“All right?” a man’s voice asked. He got to his feet and offered Sherlock his hand. When Sherlock faltered a little on the bad ankle, he helped pull him to his feet. “What are you doing out here this time of night?”

Sherlock gave him a quick once over. A man of the cloth but not a priest. Smaller parish, a pastor, married. At least two children, one of which was a baby by the small amount of vomit on the shoulder that had not all been wiped away. “What are you doing out here this time of night?” Sherlock turned the tables.

“Looking for lost souls in need of shelter.” He said.

“I am neither lost nor in need of shelter.” Sherlock said. He started to walk away, but he limped badly.

“Maybe not the shelter, but you are a lost soul. No one is out here this time of night who isn’t lost. Were you looking for drugs? I know an addict when I see one. Was one myself for ten years, but I’ve been clean for ten also. Drugs call my name sometimes too, but not so loudly anymore. But you still hear the call, don’t you, Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock turned around suddenly at hearing his name, and his eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

The man held out his hand. “Danny O’Rourke. You were on a case a few years ago that involved my Gran.”

“Involved? How?”

“Moriarty. He put bombs on my blind Gran and blew her up. And 12 other people. I thought I recognized you on the ferry over.”

Although Sherlock had technically solved that case, it had ended badly, and he had always carried a little regret for it. That was in the days when solving the puzzle was more important than human beings, but his priorities had shifted in his last fatal encounter with Moriarty. Moriarty had threatened so clearly that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock, and he had in so many ways, crushing Sherlock’s spirit over and over ever since. Even as a dead man, Moriarty was still burning him.

“I did everything possible to save your gran. It just went wrong. You have to understand that.”

“Mr. Holmes, I have no ill feelings towards you.” He extended his hand further. “Neither would Gran, actually. She’s no doubt dancing the halls of glory with Granddad now.” He smiled at Sherlock

Religious sentiment. Sherlock did not believe any of it nor did he understand why anyone would, and he certainly did not want to shake a stranger’s hand, even one who had just saved his life. Danny withdrew his hand.

“Can I interest you in a cup of coffee, Mr. Holmes? Far less addictive than drugs and you’re awake anyhow.”

“I need to get back to my hotel.”

“I could take you.”

“No.” Sherlock insisted. He did not want to put the man in any danger, and danger was clearly surrounding him. “I’ll take a cab.” Sherlock started to walk away. He continued to limp painfully.

“If you need anything, my parish is around the corner.” Danny said.

“Thank you.” Sherlock muttered. He sensed he could trust Danny but at the same time felt no need to involve him although he did feel as if he owed him a favor.

When Sherlock arrived back at his hotel room, he was not surprised that Anthea had not returned to sleep but was waiting up for him. He tried not to limp but could not conceal the injury.

“What happened?” she demanded.

“Tripped over a curb.” He said simply. He took off his coat and Anthea gasped in horror. “You’re bleeding!” The back of his shirt was covered in blood.

“No,” he said, but she was not convinced, especially since he winced in pain as he moved. She could see the blood on the inside of his coat. Then she saw the bullet hole.

She helped him out of his shirt and examined his back. He was blood-stained, but there was no bullet wound, nor were there any marks at all. Even the shirt did not have a bullet mark. “What happened? Who shot you?”

“Little bit of trouble. Don’t worry. It’s not my blood.” He sat down on the end of the bed and pulled off his shoes and socks and examined his right ankle. It was sprained and swollen. His palms were slightly skinned, and he expected his knees were skinned as well underneath the fabric of his trousers. The trouser knees bore scuffing marks. Ruined.

“I need a bath.” He said as he stood up. He hobbled a bit to the bathroom, and he shut the door on her. “Feel free to text my brother and tattle on me,” he snipped behind the closed door.

She chafed at the comment. “I don’t tell him everything, you know.”

“Yes you do. It’s your job.” He said, and he turned on the water.

When he stepped out of the bathroom several minutes later he was wrapped in a white hotel robe. He sighed and managed, “Sorry about earlier. Rough night. I’m going to get a little sleep now.”

“You’re not going to tell me what happened, are you?” she asked. “And you’re not really going to let me help you on this case, are you?”

“Good night, wife.” He said simply. He crawled into his side of the bed, robe and all, pulled up the covers. Anthea watched him and fought back angry tears, determined he would never see them. She got into her side of the bed and she pulled the covers around her. She would not sleep. Neither, however, did he. He lay awake and listened to every sound. He listened to her breathing and knew she was not asleep, but that was not what he was listening for, but the sound he was waiting for did not seem to be forthcoming until his eyes were almost ready to close for deep sleep. And then he heard it. The unmistakable sound of a silencer being fired. He sat up immediately as did Anthea. She heard it too. He motioned her still and quiet, but she picked up her gun regardless.

There were sounds in the room next door that ended as quickly as they began, and they were followed by the quiet opening of the room’s door. Sherlock grabbed her gun and bolted for the door. He waited. The assailant’s footsteps could be heard running away down the hallway, and Sherlock had no intention of giving chase or firing inside the hallway. That was far too risky. He quietly opened the door to their room and took a peek out. All clear. He turned back to Anthea. “Left coat pocket. Key.”

She got up and went to the closet, fishing the key from his coat pocket. It was not their room key. She handed him the key and he nodded for her to follow him.

They walked out of the room to the door of the room next door, and he opened the door with the key she had just brought him. He pulled her inside and quickly shut the door. “When we registered at the hotel, I took the precaution of getting the room next door in my own name.  I had a theory and needed to test it.” he said.

"Theory?" she asked.

"That someone is targeting me.  Had a little incident earlier, and I had to put something of mine in this room before returning to our room."

They did not turn on the light, but there was enough light from the street lamps coming through the windows that they did not need to. The pillows had been arranged under the sheets like a person, and they had been shot. A few down feathers were still floating down in the pale light.

He opened the drawer on the bedside table and peeled back a nicotine patch that was adhered to the inside. Anthea caught a glimpse of it. “Is that a microchip attached to it? Is that your microchip?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply. “And its being here just saved your life, so if you even think of breathing a word of it to my brother, I will make certain it is planted somewhere on you for the next assassin’s bullet.”

“You don’t need to threaten me.” She said. “I told you, you can trust me, but Mycroft is going to find out eventually. He’ll figure it out.”

“He already suspects. That’s the real reason why you’re here to watch me, didn’t you know?” Sherlock said.

She did not know. She touched his arm gently. “I’m sorry it’s like this for you. If you can solve the case, I’m sure they’ll lift the order on it,” she said.

“We need to move,” he said. “Pack your things. It’s time to go invisible. I’m tired of playing by the rules.”

MAIM THE EAGLE. SH

In London, a cell phone beeped with the message, and Bill Wiggins awoke lazily from his bench in Regent's Park. He immediately sat up and texted.

MAIM THE EAGLE. BW

In a squalid basement somewhere in London, three disheveled people slept on sofas and beds. Squalid and yet filled with the very latest high-tech equipment. When the text came in, all immediately scrambled to the computers to reveal sophisticated satellite tracking software. All three began to enter in strings of code at one particular satellite.

On the roof of the building, a small satellite dish turned slightly. In the basement below, the satellite dish began transmitting, and within a few moments the satellite circling the earth shut down. Immediately they began to pack up their equipment for a move to a new location.

In the park, Bill waited for the text.

THE EAGLE SLEEPS.

Bill relayed the same text to Sherlock, then curled up on his bench and returned to sleep.

Sherlock looked at the text, then deleted the conversation entirely. He turned to Anthea. “We may not have much time. We have to move quickly. Hurry.”

Mycroft was awoken from yet another sleep and he picked up his phone. “This had better be very important.”

In government offices on the other side of London, a chief programmer cleared his throat. “We’ve lost signal from A75-B7421, Sir.”

“How is that possible?” Mycroft asked.

“We believe we’ve been hacked, Sir. The satellite seems to have been infected with a virus.”

“Find the source of the hacking.”

“We’re already on it, Sir.”

Mycroft immediately dialed Anthea. “Everything all right there?”

Anthea and Sherlock were already in their rental car. Sherlock was about to start the engine but she motioned him quiet.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Is Sherlock with you?”

“Yes, Sir.” She said. “Would you like to speak with him?” She handed her phone to Sherlock.

“Mycroft? Is there a problem?”

“You tell me, brother dear.”

“Mycroft, I don’t have time for games. My wife and I have a long day tomorrow, and we’d like to get some sleep. So if you could possibly refrain from another call tonight, it would be greatly appreciated.” He returned the phone to Anthea.

“Is there anything else, Sir?” she asked. “Well then, good night, Sir.” As soon as she hung up the phone, Sherlock started the engine and they drove out of the hotel’s car park. She turned to him. “Where to?”

“Cork,” he said. “There are more Moriartys in Cork than anywhere else in Ireland."


	8. Chapter 8

Cork was hillier than Sherlock was expecting, but the Hayfield Manor turned out to be a sumptuous oasis that would of course go on Mycroft’s bill. No one ever questioned that. No one. Mycroft might raise an eyebrow at the choice but the government regularly saw worse expenses from MPs and MODs. Nevertheless, whenever Sherlock could stay in a high-end hotel, that advantage was used, and the Hayfield fit that description. It had an old style luxury and homey comfort, and so he chose a Manor Room, although he would upgrade to an Executive Suite if they were going to be there for more than a week. When they arrived, both were completely exhausted, neither having slept the night before, and Sherlock was still nursing his ankle a bit although he walked with barely a limp. Nevertheless he would not be out-running or giving chase to anyone for a while.

“Breakfast?” he asked.

“Room service.” She said. “I just want a bath and a long nap.”

“A short nap. We have work to do.” He said grimly.

“You really don’t sleep much, do you?”

“Some people don’t need a lot of sleep,” he said.

He heard her run the bath, but after an hour she still had not come out, and he was not exactly wanting to go in after her. He rapped on the door. “You all right in there?” There was no response. He rapped again. “You know, you’re not the only one in this room that would like use of the loo.” When there was still no answer, he opened the door. Strange that she had left it unlocked. Was it an invitation? He found her slumped in the tub, her mouth barely above the water. He checked her pulse. It was weak. He patted her cheeks. “Wake up. Wake up.” She barely opened her eyes and tried to push him away. Her movements were slightly uncoordinated.

"Juice." she said. "I need juice."

That wasn't what he was expecting her to say, but it was clear to him by simple observation that she was having some type of blood sugar episode. He left the bathroom, removed a small bottle of juice from their stocked mini-fridge, and returned. He helped her to sit up, and he opened the bottle for her and steadied her hands as she took a few sips. As the sugar flooded her system, she began to improve rapidly.

"Sorry." she said. "Sometimes my blood sugar drops really low when I push myself too hard and am not eating regularly."

"My fault," he said. "I forget you can't keep up with my pace. Don't be offended. No one can."

He offered her his hand as she stood up in the bathwater, and then he wrapped a hotel robe around her shoulders. He started to leave the bathroom and without looking back said, "I don't eat often when I'm working. Fasting keeps my mind clear. But when you need to eat or stop for any reason, let me know."

"You won't grouse at me or give me one of your annoyed sighs?"

"I will endeavor to contain myself." he said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

"Thank you," She said with a slight smile and she reached out to touch him, but he was already out of her reach as he quickly left the bathroom.

Room service arrived almost the moment she stepped out of the bathroom. "'I'm not eating alone," she said, "and I'm not going to have you judging what I eat. At least have some coffee and toast."

He sat down with her, and she poured him some coffee while he buttered some toast. He watched her eat. "Protein. Fiber. Slow release carbohydrates. Keeps the blood sugar stable."

"Stop it." she warned.

"Sorry. My mother was a bit of a nutrition fanatic when I was young." he said.

"Apparently didn't rub off on you." she said wryly. She yawned. "I need to sleep for a few hours before we go out or I won't be any good at all on the case."

He allowed her to sleep for four hours but then woke her. "We need to be at the hall of records before it closes."

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked.

"Maybe later," he said.

The hotel summoned a taxi, and they made their way across town to the hall of records. "Your brother has always been kind to me, protective, if you will. I've worked for him ever since I left training, and I suppose I always will.” She said. “It’s a good career.”

“But here you are in the field for the first time.”

She was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t want to send me, but I asked him. Begged him. It can be a little monotonous at the home office, and I wanted to prove to him that I have what it takes to be in the field.” She rested her hand on his arm. “I just need a chance to prove myself, perhaps to me as much as him.”

They spent several hours in the hall of records pouring over information that could have just as easily been found online, and that frustrated Sherlock to no end. Yes, there were Moriartys in Cork. A lot of them. There were some distant relatives to James Moriarty, but about half of the men were named James, it seemed which became altogether confusing. It was mentally fatiguing and got them nowhere. Also, he was exhausted, having not slept the night before.

They returned to the hotel and ordered room service, both far too tired to dine in one of the establishment’s restaurants. She showered first, then crawled into bed, and then he showered and got onto his side of the bed. He was beginning to feel the internal trembling from sleep deprivation, and he was not trusting what his eyes were seeing: undulating waves in the carpet, the legs of chairs not quite touching the floor. And still sleep did not want to claim him.

Anthea moved up behind him in bed and put her arm around him, and he immediately tensed. “What are you doing?” he asked. She smelled like jasmine and coconut oil, and her hair smelled of strawberries. They were scents he found particularly intoxicating.

“Saying thank you.” She said. “If you wanted to make love, it could help you to sleep. Prove to me what you said yesterday, Sherlock Holmes.” She kissed his shoulder tenderly as her hand gently caressed his chest.

He turned to her. “No.”

She touched his cheek softly, and he did not stop her. “I’ve always thought you were very special, Sherlock. Always.” She moved a little closer, and their lips touched. It was not a kiss, just a touch, but it evolved into a gentle kiss, then a deeper, searching kiss.

He suddenly pulled back. “No. I mustn’t. We mustn’t.”

Anthea looked at him as if she could see right through him, and she smiled gently although there was a little hurt from rejection. “I hope whoever she is, she makes you very happy.”

He did not know what he could say that would deny or confirm it that would simply seem to confirm it anyhow. He turned away from her and pulled the covers up around him. “Please return to your side of the bed. Good night.”

There was no safety in sharing the bed with her now, however. He was not entirely certain he trusted himself, but he was not going to allow anything further between them. He got up from the bed and grabbed up the blanket at the end, and he sought out the sofa. It was too short for him, but it would have to do.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have done that.” She said quietly.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” He said sternly. “The investigation may have just been compromised.” Part of his mind muddled over whether or not her kiss had been genuine or if she was purposefully trying to distract him from his work. Either way it could not be tolerated further. He was sorely tempted to put her on the next plane back to London, but that would only raise suspicion with Mycroft. He had let his guard down for a moment with her, and she had immediately taken advantage of his vulnerability. He would make certain not to make the same mistake twice. In fact, he suddenly distrusted her more than he had at the start. No, she could not be trusted at all. Perhaps she was cleverer than he had given her credit for. Perhaps her inexperience in the field was actually a ruse, and perhaps she was actually a double agent and was connected with Moriarty. She had only been working with Mycroft since just before the case with the cabbie, so there were bits of a pattern that could be put together. Or perhaps, just perhaps, it was nothing more than her crush on him that had led her to be involved. All of the scenarios spelled trouble, and he would not tolerate them.

They spent a fruitless week in Ireland chasing leads that went nowhere, and the entire week was fairly uneventful after that first night. She checked in with Mycroft twice a day as did Sherlock, and Sherlock also checked in with Wiggins twice daily to see if the satellite had been put back into action. He was to be notified the moment it was up and running. His computer hacking team, however, was to do its best to keep it from running at all.

As soon as they set foot in Liverpool again, Anthea took him to a hair salon where his hair was professionally dyed back to its natural color.  They were both delighted to see the last of the reddish curls.

***

Molly worked on finishing a bowl of curry chicken as she watched the government car pull up to the curb below Bart's. It was unusual for Sherlock to arrive in anything other than a taxi, but she assumed he had been doing government work since he had been working on the Moriarty case. He had texted her that he was on his way to the labs, so she had been expecting him. She smiled when she saw him get out of the car. She felt genuine joy to see him even though she had a secret to keep from him. Still, there was pure happiness to see his dark curls and the iconic coat. She wanted to run down to him at that moment and fling herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist while smothering his neck with kisses. That's what she wanted to do but that was only in her mind.

She continued to watch as the door on the other side opened, and a lovely woman with long brown hair stepped out and walked around the car. She approached Sherlock and they exchanged a few pleasantries, then a warm embrace followed by kisses to the cheeks. Then a kiss on the mouth that lingered for a moment too long.

Molly's joy evaporated quickly and she stepped back from the window in horror. She held her stomach, cupped her hand over her mouth and barely made it to nearest waste bin before she vomited.

On the street below Sherlock shook his head a little and wagged his finger at Anthea.

"I had to try one more time," she said. "There is someone, isn't there?"

"I must return to my work as you must yours." He responded simply.

"Perhaps we shall work together again." She said.

"Unlikely," he said as he turned and walked briskly away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand to wipe say her stolen kiss. He couldn't deny that she was attractive by society's standards, but he also couldn't deny that even if she weren't MI6 or connected with Mycroft that she held little interest to him.

Anthea was not the first woman he had encountered who found him sexually attractive but he found that type in general to be unstimulating to his mind. Sex appeal was little more than an exercise in vague constructs based a flavor-of-the-month mentality, and that qualified as boring. Although Molly had awoken his sexual persona, sex was still not a driving force in his life. He could generally push it entirely out of his mind if he wanted to.

Nevertheless he wanted to see Molly and was even considering asking her out for fish and chips at his favorite shop off Marylebone road. He realized that would constitute what she called a date, but he was all right with that since the satellite was down although he knew that was probably still being tracked in some way by Mycroft. He even realized that fish and chips would be a public outing with her, and afterwards he hoped to spend a night making love with her.

He had an extra spring in his step as he entered the Pathology labs but Molly was nowhere to be seen. “She went home sick,” he was told by one of her co-workers. He texted Bill Wiggins.

DOES THE EAGLE SLEEP? SH

LIKE A BABY. BW

With that news, he headed off to Molly’s flat via taxi, but because she was ill, he did not presume to come into the apartment. He knocked on her door. "Molly, it's me. Molly. Molly open up." He rapped on the door harder. When he got no response, he slipped his key into the door lock. He was just about to open the door when it opened for him and Molly confronted him. She had obviously been crying very recently and she didn't look at all well.

"What do you want?" She asked darkly.

"Molly, why are you crying?” He asked. He was confused by her tone.

She hesitated for a moment. "I guess I'm just tired of being hurt by you, Sherlock. I thought we were past that but I was wrong,"

He felt himself being drawn into an impossible conversation that was laced with confusion. "Have I done something to offend you?" He asked. He didn't understand her tone.

"If you have to ask, I'm not going to tell you.” she said simply and that perplexed him even worse.

He blinked rapidly several times. "Right," he said. "I don't even know what that means--"

"Imagine that. You don't know something." She interrupted. "We never said we were exclusive and you've proven it."

Again her words were mystifying, but clearly she was expecting him to solve a puzzle, and he suddenly wasn't willing to play. "This is exactly why I have avoided the rubbish of relationships. I'll always be on the losing side in any domestic with you, won't I?"

Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Bastard!" She had barely got the word out when she vomited. She tried to cover her mouth, but it leaked out voluminously between her fingers, and it spilled to the threshold between them and onto the toes of his shoes. She turned and rushed to her bathroom.

Bodily fluids never bothered him, not even vomit, but there was a shock factor that it was on his new shoes. He carefully slipped his feet out of the shoes and stepped over the vomit splatters as he followed her.

He found her retching uncontrollably over the toilet bowl. He pulled her long hair back and supported her forehead with his palm, and he continued to support her thus until the last dry heaves and spasms passed, and then he wiped her face and mouth tenderly with a cool cloth and sat down on the bathroom floor and leaned her back against him. "Better?" He asked gently.

"Do you love her?" She asked as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Who?" He asked.

"That woman you kissed today when you were getting out of the car."

"Her? No. She's my brother’s assistant."

"Then why did you kiss her?"

"For the record, she was the one doing the kissing. She may have a bit of a crush on me."

"Was that the only time?"

He hesitated a moment but answered "No. We've been on the Moriarty case, and she got a little confused about our working relationship."

"Were you confused?"

"No," he said. He stroked her hair back. "In the future, don't eat the curry chicken in the canteen. It has a bad reputation for a reason."

At just the mention of it she grabbed the toilet again but only produced dry heaves. Again he supported her in the same way, and afterwards asked with concern, “Do you need me to take you to hospital?”

She shook her head. Part of her was glad that she really did have a touch of food poisoning and that he would not suspect morning sickness. In truth she had so far not experienced any morning sickness and hoped the rest of her pregnancy would go smoothly although she was mentally prepared for the worst. He wiped her face again, and once more she leaned back against him. Her stomach was still cramping, and she tried to steady her breathing and calm down.

“So are you any closer to solving the case?” she asked.

“Ireland was a waste of time. Nothing we did there couldn’t have been done on the internet. Useless legwork.” He said.

“Then why did he send you?”

“I’m not entirely certain. That’s a new part of the mystery.”

He helped her up and started to lead her to her bedroom, but she shook her head. “I just want to watch some telly for a while.” She curled up in her reclining chair, and he covered her with a blanket.

“Shall I stay or go?” he asked.

“Go. I’ll be fine,” she insisted, but there were fresh tears brimming in her eyes.

He took a deep breath and stood his tallest. “Molly, jealousy is but a hot knife that burns deeply while carving damage that can destroy. Be careful how you wield it.” He said gently but somewhat sternly in that paternal tone that he sometimes took. She hated that tone because it was a little demeaning and made her feel as if he were treating her like a child.

“Sod off.” She said and one blink caused her tears to spill. He did not say the reassuring words she needed. She began to doubt he ever would, or even if he were capable.

He pursed his lips, unsure what his next move was, but he did not hesitate long. He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him. Immediately she gave into heavy tears. She picked up the book on the side table and threw it at the door.

Outside of her flat, Sherlock heard the loud thump on the door, and he knew what had caused that noise, and he was not pleased with the turn of events with Molly, but he was equally uncertain how to interpret what had just happened. He knew she was jealous, but he felt as if he’d been truthful and that there was no reason for such pettiness. He did not like engaging in emotional power plays, and he was not going to give into them with Molly. He would not. But he did not move from her front door landing for several moments. Somehow she had defeated him and had temporarily paralyzed his ability to find his next step. With Irene Adler he had always felt completely in control, but with Molly, nothing seemed in control, and he did not like that problem. He did not want to have to second-guess what he was about to say or had already said. He did not want to have to be accountable to her for every action that occurred when they were apart. He had not done anything wrong, and would be damned before he allowed her to make him feel that way. And yet, he did not move. Conscience kept him rooted to the landing.

What had made him not stop Anthea’s first kiss sooner? In truth he had been a little curious to taste her lips, to see if he responded to her the same way he had responded to Molly. Was Molly simply an anomaly in his life where no other woman had managed to break his armor? He had briefly used Anthea as an experiment. He had kissed her briefly in return, and if he had continued kissing her, he was not certain what would have happened. Maybe nothing. After all, he knew that he cared for Molly, but he also knew he did not care for Anthea. Molly had ignited the flame of his sexuality, and there was no off-switch that he knew of save abstinence, but he was determined that any forays for him into sex were not to be random or frivolous. Anthea, however, was clearly after more than a kiss. He had no real relationship with her and yet she had wanted sex. He could not even say they were friends. They were colleagues. They were MI6 colleagues, the most dangerous kind, made even more so by her association with Mycroft.

He turned back to look at Molly’s door for a moment as if he would go back in, but then he shook his head, picked up his shoes and walked away. Sod off indeed.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock dropped his file notes on Mycroft’s desk. The file was thin. “Not much to report on Ireland, I’m afraid, but I suspect you knew that before you sent us over.”

“Just wanting to be thorough.” Mycroft said with a nonchalant shrug.

“Thorough?” Sherlock tensed. “Your thoroughness nearly got both of us killed. From now on I work alone or with John. No one else. Are we clear on that? And I want John’s gun and license to carry restored.”

“Even I can’t do that, Sherlock.”

“You’re the government. You can do anything.”

“The Moriarty case is of national importance, Sherlock. You don’t get to make the rules or demand anything. All assignments generally carry the possibility of personal injury risk. You know that. At any rate you’re back and without too much wear and tear.”

“Until your people start shooting at me again.”

“Our people are not shooting at you. However, someone has tapped into our satellite and has been tracking all our chipped agents. Two have been killed so far. We are investigating, but our satellite has had issues.”

Mycroft watched him, but if he was waiting for a confession regarding tampering with the satellite, he was not going to get it from his younger brother.

“I suggest you find your assassin, Mycroft. Don’t make me do all your work for you.”

Sherlock turned and was already texting John before he left the building.

TIME TO GET BACK IN THE GAME. COME TO BAKER STREET. SH

Sherlock pinned up pictures and notes above the sofa in his flat. He had several images of the fake Moriarty from Breitling although the close-up images were somewhat grainy. The notes were categorized in two sections – DEAD END and FRESH LEADS, and most of the notes were posted under DEAD ENDS. That bothered him. The entire case bothered him. Something about it seemed too capricious, disconnected. It was not the Moriarty style, not that he believed for a moment that Moriarty was alive anyhow. No, he believed this was the work of a Moriarty underling, perhaps even the impostor, but that was the thing about impostors – they were hard to track. However, he was determined to find the impostor because he knew that person was definitely linked to the case.

He was slightly concerned also that there may have been some damage that occurred in his friendship with Molly, but he was not entirely certain what the damage was or if there were damage, how to repair it. Certainly he could not ask anyone for advice about it without perhaps raising suspicion, but he did not know if he should call her, send some sort of apologetic gift, let all the dust settle first, or even if he should go over to her flat and try to sort it out. She had called him a “bastard.” He was called that from time to time by various people, but he did not like it when she said it to him because it meant she was angry with him. And it nagged at him to the point that it crept into his concentration.

I DON’T KNOW WHAT I DID. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. SH

His finger hesitated over the “send” button. He was not sure that was the right thing to say. He erased it and started over.

NOT A BASTARD. DNA MATCHES BOTH PARENTS. SH

No, that was too flippant, and that would make her angrier, he suspected. He groaned in frustration. Mary had once said he did not know anything about human nature, and he had agreed then, but he did not believe that entirely, at least not now. Apologies were not his strong suit, but he had notably apologized to Molly a few Christmases before at a party at 221B and had been wholly sincere. He had been a complete arse to her then for the sake of being clever simply because she had irritated him by repeating conversation he had thought had been private.

I’M SORRY. PLEASE FORGIVE ME. I’M AN ARSE. SH

He didn’t want to think about that one any longer than he had to and quickly hit the “send” button. He sighed again both in relief and frustration. Just the thought of her brought the scent of her to his mind.

Sherlock liked Molly’s delicate scent, somewhere between roses and plumeria, but he would shower as soon as he came home from a night with her to try to rid himself of it. Even then the scent of her was still on his clothes, and he would send his clothes immediately to the cleaners. He even purchased cans of disinfectant aerosol to spray throughout the flat to mask any remaining trace of her scent. If he could smell it, maybe someone else could smell it. Then there would be questions, and he would tolerate no questions about Molly or his private life in general.

Nevertheless, he hoped she would respond with a forgiving text and that they could go back to the way things were up until she threw something after him.

And where was John? His phone beeped with a message.

THANK YOU. HE WAS DRIVING ME CRAZY. MW

He put on an accompaniment CD and picked up his violin, immediately beginning to play the violin concerto with furiously intense concentration.

He did not hear John come into the flat. John waited patiently for the piece to end, then cleared his throat.

“Auditioning for the London Symphony are we?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock snipped.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?”

“Didn’t hear it.”

“Why does it smell like disinfectant in here?” John wrinkled his nose.

“Because I’m disinfecting.”

John’s eyes scanned the room but it looked the same as it always did. “You never disinfected before.”

“It was on sale.”

“Why the sudden interest in disinfectant?”

“Why. Why. Why. Boring questions, John.” Sherlock said simply. He restarted the music and began to play again, but John shut it off.

“Sherlock, you asked me to come over, and here I am. Ready to work. The game is on. Hip hip hurrah and all that.”

Sherlock set his violin down and sighed deeply. “Look at the wall, John. Tell me what you see.”

John crossed the room and looked at the wall above the sofa. He studied the notes and pictures for several minutes. He knew that it did not matter what he would say because it would never be thorough enough for Sherlock. He had got better at deductions over the years with Sherlock, but he still fell far short. He looked hard at the grainy Breitling security image of the Moriarty impostor.

“That’s Moriarty.”

“No,” Sherlock said. “Impostor. This was only a few months ago.”

John squinted and took a closer look. “Well, they say there are eight people in the world that look like you, so either his network found one of them, or someone has had a lot of plastic surgery. Or make-up.”

“The makeup required for that wouldn’t hold up in person. No, that’s a real face.”

“Do you think that was the face in the animated gif?”

“Don’t know. Couldn’t see the teeth. And the face could have been altered in Photoshop or that was an old image of Moriarty. That gif image isn’t important. It was nothing more than bait. The real question is, who commandeered the nation’s broadcasting systems? How was it done?”

“The emergency broadcast system can take over at any time.” John said. “But that’s controlled by the government.”

“Well, it was hacked. We already know that.” Sherlock dismissed John’s assessment with a wave of his hand. Sherlock tapped on the picture of the impostor. “That man is our key, John. We find him and the whole thing will unravel for us.”

“But how do you catch an impostor?” John asked. “How will you even find him? You couldn’t have found the real Moriarty if he didn’t want you to.”

“We lay bait and set a trap. Two can play at this game.”

John continued to study the wall. “You’re not doing very well on this case, are you?”

Sherlock sighed. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious. If I were playing with the real Moriarty, there would be intelligent thought behind all of this, but it’s all so random and disconnected. I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know what he’s trying to say or do. I don’t even know if he is a he or an organization.”

“But the timing was too coincidental – you getting on that plane and just minutes later you were landing again. Like someone didn’t want you to leave the country, like it was pre-planned.”

Sherlock’s brow rose a little. “Your deduction skills are improving, John. Fatherhood must suit you. How’s Mary and my little namesake?”

John scowled a little. “You didn’t call me over to talk about Mary and Elizabeth, and you gossip with Mary often enough, so I doubt I have little to add. How can I help?”

Sherlock walked over to his desk and picked up the Breitling watch. He tossed it to John. “Checks out as authentic and that our fake Moriarty purchased it. But why would anyone purchase a watch that expensive just to use as a bait in an exploding coffin? Why not use a fake? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Unless all the security footage is fake too.” John said. “Unless you had a fake watch verified as real.”

“That still doesn’t make any sense. Who would go to all the trouble?”

“Well, if the real Moriarty were alive, he would.” John said simply. “So where do we go from this point, Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know, John. It’s all gone silent. No stopwatch ticking down the moments to solve a puzzle. No one in mortal danger—well, except for the times I was nearly killed in Ireland. Ruined a perfectly good coat.”

“Well, let’s start over and break down all the pieces and see what we’ve got.” John said. “Maybe you missed something.”

Sherlock shot John a sharp glare. “Doubtful.” He turned and yelled, “Mrs. Hudson! We’ll be needing some tea now! And biscuits!”

All of Sherlock’s notes came off the wall. He tried to keep them in order, but they quickly became a messy pile. He strung a long piece of clothesline across the wall, tacking it down with a stapler, and he began to build a timeline of events from the national broadcast of the animated gif to the present. And as John handed him hand-written bits of paper that hung as markers on the event timeline, his phone pulsed with a text.

SOMEWHERE IN TIME. MH

He startled a little and hoped John did not notice. Well, perhaps she had forgiven him after all, but he could not think about that now. He had to work. He had to push her out of his mind. There was only the case that mattered, and she was a distraction. He would not allow his thoughts of her to derail him from the work or from his collaboration with John.

ENDURANCE. SH

He had missed working with John although he would never say the words. It was actually their first time trying to work on something since the ill-fated Appledore fiasco from a few months before. Hours passed, however, and although they had constructed an elaborate timeline that was punctuated with notes and images, no new information was revealed. John checked his watch.

“I really should be heading home. Mary’s texted me three times.”

“She’s texted me five.” Sherlock said.

“I’ll come back tomorrow.” John said. “I’ve got patients until 1400 hours, but then I can come by.”

Sherlock coughed a little, then said, “Go on then. I’m going to take it all down and redo it.”

“What’s wrong with it?” John asked.

“It’s what’s not right with it.” Sherlock insisted. “Something is missing. Why can’t I see it?”

“Because perhaps it isn’t there.” John said. “Or perhaps because you’ve been looking at it too long and can’t see it clearly anymore.”

John left and Sherlock took down all the pieces on the timeline again. It took him a few hours to put them up, and now it was 0300 hours, and he had yet to go to bed. He stepped back from the timeline and looked at it. What was he not seeing? What was the missing element? The longer he stared at it, the angrier he began. He picked up his teacup and threw it against the wall, splattering the wall with tea and shattering the cup. Mrs. Hudson would grouse about the noise in the morning, but he did not care. This puzzle was infuriating, and he was tired of feeling at odds with it. And then, just then, as he was heading off to bed, his eyes grew wide and he froze. The timeline was correct. It just did not start early enough. No, he needed to take it back to the beginning. But how far back was that? Which beginning? The Carl Powers case? That was the earliest Moriarty reference in his life. Had Moriarty been aware of Sherlock’s existence since Sherlock was an adolescent? Or had somehow Sherlock been aware of Moriarty since his youth?

Then he remembered. It was grisly. No one knew who did it, but it made national, sensational headlines when a Irish Setter was found skinned alive in Walton-on-Thames. Sherlock had been both horrified and fascinated with the details to the point where his mother would not allow him access to the newspaper unless she had screened it first for removal of any part of that story as well as restricted access to the news on the telly. The fascination had been partly due to the fact that his own dog, Redbeard, had been an Irish Setter. Redbeard had disappeared a few months before, and Sherlock had been told he’d run away, even though Sherlock had felt in his young heart that that was not true. Searches for the dog, however, had come up empty. He had wondered and worried at the time that the dog might have been his, although it was rather far from where he grew up.

The skinning had happened in 1988, the year before Carl Powers had died. Then there were the National Youth Science Awards. Sherlock’s entry had won top prize and was on display in the museum of Science in London along with the other finalists'. The night before the awards ceremony, someone had broken into display room housing all the finalists’ entries and had destroyed all the exhibits. But Sherlock’s entry had been particularly demolished. Within twenty-four hours, there was another shocking crime out of Reigate where a middle-aged couple were found murdered. Everyone suspected the foster child who was Sherlock’s age, but the evidence could not quite pin the murder on the youth. Once again Sherlock was completely fascinated with death, but now his brain was working overtime to try to solve the mysteries as well as to understand the intimate details of the causes of death. He spent hours at the library studying anatomy and images from autopsies. Whereas his peers thought such things were “gross,” he did not, but he quickly realized he had to look at such things in private. While his schoolmates were hiding pornographic magazines between their mattresses, Sherlock was hiding reports of famous murder investigations.

Sherlock had not linked the four events then, and he was not certain he could do it now either. Maybe they were connected but maybe they were not. Maybe they were all Moriarty’s early manifestations of psychopathic behaviors. He did not remember that the foster boy’s name was Moriarty, and he would have to research that when he was not so tired. Perhaps there was a picture too. Did he have that information saved somewhere or had his mother thrown it out in disgust? She had had a habit of combing through his room when he was at school and removing things she found objectionable. This irritated him to no end and forced him to find hiding places for his research. It accentuated his OCD behaviors. He blamed that on her, and she had tried to placate him with an expensive microscope. She had hoped that would curb his morbid curiosity into things she did not think were appropriate for someone his age. He had never lost that curiosity and never would. It served him well in his work. He did not know what would make him flinch anymore. He had seen it all and purposefully numbed himself to the most shocking dismemberments. He needed to look at any crime scene and not have the initial response of disgust or horror. Those feelings got in the way of true investigative science. He knew his mother would never understand that.

He strung another piece of clothesline from the beginning of his first line and to the left. It was awkward. It was beginning to look like Philip Anderson’s flat when Sherlock had gone to give a video interview of how he survived the fall from Bart’s roof. He did not think he needed to chart things back to his first awareness of violent crime in Britain, but he nonetheless did not want to miss any points whether they proved to be relevant or not.

“Sherlock! What’s all this?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice startled him awake. He thought he’d only shut his eyes for a few minutes, but he had fallen asleep in his chair for three hours. Mrs. Hudson had a fresh tray of morning tea and light breakfast for him, but she was on the other side of the doorway, blocked by a clothes line with bits of paper tacked to it. Before Sherlock could protest, she pulled the line down, and all his pieces slid down the line into a heap on the floor.

Sherlock jumped up with a shriek. “That’s four hours of work!”

Mrs. Hudson set his tea down beside his chair. “Well, I don’t know how you expected me to get in here with your tea.” She looked around at the clothesline. “What on earth is going on in here? Sometimes, Sherlock, I think you have completely gone nutters.”

“Mrs. Hudson, I am on a case!” he said sharply, but when she gave him a scolding glare, he was immediately contrite. “Sorry. Short night.” He kissed her on the brow, then quickly turned away and coughed.

“You should have John look at that.” She said.

“It’s nothing. Allergies. Too much disinfectant.”

“A little overboard on that, aren’t you?” Even she coughed. She opened the windows. “Get some fresh air in here. Is John coming ‘round today?”

“He’ll be here later.” Sherlock yawned.

John did come again in the afternoon and for every afternoon over the next two months. Sometimes they stayed in to sort the pieces of information, but often they went out for research. Sherlock was not certain he could solve the early mysteries surrounding Moriarty. All of the Carl Powers classmates had checked out, but what other schools had been in the area, and what had happened to those students? And what about the foster care youth who had murdered his caretakers? Could he have possibly been Moriarty? School yearbooks had to be painstakingly researched at various libraries, even the schools themselves.

Sherlock and John visited the family of Carl Powers. No one had investigated Carl’s drowning at the time as anything more than an unfortunate accident although Sherlock had had his suspicions. After solving several of Moriarty’s puzzles a few years earlier, Carl’s missing shoes had crossed Sherlock’s path, and he felt it was time to return them to the family. He was not certain if they had ever been told that Carl had died of botulism poisoning, and he would not necessarily volunteer that information if they did not, but he suspected they might have been informed at some point.

The Powers family greeted Sherlock warmly and graciously accepted Carl’s old pair of trainers. While Sherlock and John were prepared to hear glowing reminiscing about Carl, they were not as prepared to hear that young champion swimmer Carl was also something of a bully and had been sent to detention on more than one occasion. He was especially hard on swimmers from other schools. It had nearly got him expelled from the swim team until his coach took him under his wing to mentor him. Carl’s father had left the family when Carl was six. The coach’s intervention had come a little too late, however, as three months later Carl drowned.

Sherlock realized he was facing a nearly insurmountable search for where Moriarty might have met young Carl if Moriarty had also been a swimmer because regional meets and national meets brought swimmers from all over the country. Even so, Sherlock suspected that young Moriarty was local to the London area.

As John and Sherlock were leaving the Powers home, Sherlock’s phone beeped with a text.

SOMEWHERE IN TIME. WE NEED TO TALK. MH

Why had she added something to their code? It immediately set him on edge, and he tucked his phone quickly into his pocket before John could see it. He would have to remind her not to alter the code. Ever. In fact, he would have to come up with a new code now.

Sherlock arrived at Molly’s apartment with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of peach-colored roses. She took the roses and thanked him and gave him a sweet kiss, but he had hungered for a longer kiss and did not get one.

She looked at the wine he brought. She would not drink it, but she needed a cover story. “You should take that back.” She insisted. “Terrible wine. Year.”

“Isn’t this the same vintage we all drank at the Christmas party a few years ago?”

“Yes, and it was terrible. Might as well pour vinegar into my glass.” She said. “Coffee?”

“Molly, about the code…” he said.

“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do. We need more codes.” She said. “It’s not enough. It’s not enough!”

She seemed agitated, and he did not press the matter further. He simply nodded and said almost apologetically, “Okay. I’ll work it out.”

Why did she seem so nervous? He was not certain. Had she put on a couple of pounds? He certainly was not going to mention it as that had not gone well when he had done it once before. He could not read her like he used to. Everything with her had subtext now. He had been intimate with her and knew the layered transparency of her soul.

“So what did you want to talk about?” he asked.

“Later.” She said.

They made love but never ate the simple dinner she had prepared. She recognized it might be the end of their relationship as soon as she told him her news of her pregnancy and that therefore this might be the last time they would make love. This man that she had placed all her dreams in for so many years might be about to walk out the door forever. He was surprised by her need for him, as if she could not get enough of him. Afterwards when both were thoroughly spent, she lay on his chest with her head on his shoulder. His long fingers gently stroked the length of her back, and he heard her gasp a little sob. “Molly, why are you crying?” he asked softly.

She could not tell him her secret. No, this would not be the night. “Just hold me all night.” She said.

He wrapped his arms around her and kept her close all night, never knowing the reason for her tears and never asking again.

He returned to his work with John although both were feeling the frustration and exhaustion of investigative research. While John took copious notes, Sherlock was always able to filter what he felt was important from what was trivial, and he tucked away the important bits in his mind palace for later recall.

The case of the skinned-alive dog was never going to be solved. If it had been an early manifestation of Moriarty’s psychopathic behaviors, there was no way to prove it. It simply fit a pattern but should not necessarily be linked. The only relevant information from that case was where the dog was found, which was within one mile of where the murdered foster couple lived. The foster boy’s name had not been released to the press due to the fact that he was a minor, but that trail was not entirely cold. Relatives of the murdered couple remembered the youth, and one even produced a picture from a family gathering.

Sherlock and John studied the picture carefully. The youth had dark hair and eyes and happened to be wearing swimming trunks as the photo was taken by a backyard pool. Sherlock could not tell if the boy was happy or sad or just putting on a face for the camera. John looked closer. “Could be him. Some similarities, but the boy’s name is Anton Grimsley.”

Then Sherlock saw the boy’s left foot. Slightly deformed. “Could have changed his name to Moriarty. Were there any abnormalities in Moriarty’s skeletal structure?” he asked.

“I honestly did not check when he was laid out on the slab. Sherlock, how is that information getting us any closer to the impostor Moriarty?” John asked.

“Because we have to know what the impostor might know and might be using to play this game,” Sherlock said, but even he did not sound convincing to himself. In truth he simply wanted that age-old suspicion solved.

“Molly did the autopsy. Perhaps she remembers.” John said. “Why not ask her?”

“Yes, of course.” He said as if that thought had not already occurred to him. “John, you check with Molly, see what records you can dig up. And then see what you can dig up on Anton Grimsley."

“And where are you off to?” he asked.

“I need a professional consultation.” He said. “I’ll meet you back at Baker Street in three hours.”

Sherlock made his way via cab to the suburbs of London to John’s home. He wanted Mary’s professional opinion on the case.

Baby Elizabeth lay on her back on a padded quilt on the floor beneath a colorful mobile that she cooed at and occasionally flapped her arms and kicked her feet enthusiastically for.

“I thought you and John didn’t want me involved in that former lifestyle anymore.” She said as she sat down on the floor next to the baby.

“We don’t.” Sherlock said. “I’m only asking for your opinion, and John doesn’t know I’m here as he would undoubtedly disapprove.”

She nodded her agreement. “What do you want to know?”

“From a former agent to a sometimes MI6 agent, what do you really think is going on here?” he asked.

“I think you’re being played, Sherlock, but you already know that. The question is by whom?”

“But why the Moriarty business after all this time?”

“Because he’s your pressure point. Sorry to use those words, but they’re accurate. He will always be your pressure point, and as long as someone knows that, they’ll keep targeting that old wound. Someone still wants to hurt you, and someone still wants you to feel pain, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t know. Why are you really here?” she asked.

He lowered his head for a moment and struggled to find the words. He thought for a moment of asking her advice about his relationship with Molly, but he quickly tucked those thoughts into a deep corner. “Mary, I have a giant cross-hair on me. I could be taken out at any moment. It’s not even safe for you for me to be here. I don’t know if my next breath is going to be my last. I feel like my life is just starting to come alive a bit, and I don’t want to die.” He said.

She could see the pain and fear in his eyes, and she gripped his hands. “Oh Sherlock. I don’t know how I can help you.”

“But you can help.” He said. “Tell me how to find an impostor.”


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock received his information on the young Anton Grimsley. The boy had been sent to a juvenile rehabilitation facility after the murders of the foster parents, and although the murders could not specifically be pinned on the boy, all the evidence still pointed to him. He was released on his eighteenth birthday. From there the records went cold. He just disappeared without a trace. No college or university records, no voting records, no driving license or marriage or death certificates. No bank account. The boy would now be about Sherlock’s age. Sherlock wondered if he were still alive or if he’d just relocated to another country, but for the moment it was simply another dead end in all the dead ends that Sherlock juggled. Yet he kept Anton’s picture up on his wall. That was another mystery to be solved for another time. Sherlock kept lots of little mysteries like that which he would occasionally work on just to satisfy his curiosity. He did not believe, however, that Anton Grimsley was another name for Moriarty. Grimsley was simply another child with psychopathic behaviors.

Sherlock’s phone rang and he reached for it lazily. It was Lestrade. He came to attention immediately. There was always something new and exciting when Lestrade called. “Detective Inspector.”

At the Scotland Yard station, Lestrade paced anxiously in an empty conference room, several file folders laid out on the table in front of him. “How soon can you get here?”

“Is it related to Moriarty or just a regular murder?” Sherlock asked.

“Moriarty.” Lestrade said.

“John and I will be there in a few hours.” Sherlock said. He did not want to continue on the Moriarty case unless John was at his side. He needed John’s perspective more than he cared to admit, because John often sparked in him the creative deduction needed solve the case.

Sherlock and John arrived promptly at Lestrade’s office at 1400 hours, but he would not discuss the case in his office. Instead, he took them into the locked conference room and immediately closed the blinds in the room. The files were still laid out on the table.

“Six murders discovered in twenty-four hours near Inverness,” Lestrade said. “Recognize any of these men?”

Sherlock and John opened the folders and passed them back and forth as they looked over the mug shots. None had English names. All names were eastern European or Russian. John shrugged “no” but said, “Apparently they all have some sort of criminal connection?”

“All of them wanted by Interpol.”

“Looks like someone did you a favor. Why would I get involved with an Interpol case?” Sherlock asked. “Why do you say they’re connected to Moriarty?”

Lestrade hesitated, then pulled out an envelope and opened it, removing six 8x10 photographs of the dead men. They all had one thing in common – each had a note pinned to their chest that read GET SHERLOCK.

Sherlock backed away suddenly from the pictures in horror and revulsion. “No! Not that! Not that!”

“Sherlock.” John said with alarm. “Take it easy.”

“It’s not you being baited constantly, John. It’s me. I’m tired of it!”

It was at that precise moment that he received a text message.

DO YOU LIKE MY SIX PRESENTS? I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT. JM

Sherlock showed the text immediately to Lestrade and John. “Coincidence that I get this text at this moment? I think not.” Sherlock looked up at the CCTV cameras in the corners. “Who has access to the CCTV feeds in here?”

Lestrade quickly gathered up all the files. “Follow me.”

They quickly followed him out of the conference room, down a hallway, then down two flights of stairs. Another long hallway and they came to a room where Lestrade needed to use his key card for access. They walked into the CCTV control room where all rooms at Scotland Yard were monitored. “All right listen up!” he shouted. “I want to know who’s been in here with a key card, and I want to know if there has been any sign that we’ve been hacked.”

A young but obviously highly intelligent young woman spoke up quickly. “It’s not possible to hack from the outside, Detective Inspector. It’s completely self-contained within Scotland Yard. No outside link.”

Sherlock turned to John. “Hacked from inside.” He turned to Lestrade. “Not my department. You have a security leak. Find it, and I want the vitae of everyone in this department emailed to me by 1800 hours.”

“Now hang on. You can’t investigate my people like that!”

“I can and I will,” Sherlock said coldly. “Because one of them is a rat.” Sherlock turned and started to walk out, and John followed him. Lestrade grimaced tersely, then followed. None of them said another word until they were outside Scotland Yard.

“Sherlock wait!” Lestrade caught his arm. “It’s gotta be your microchip.”

“It isn’t.” Sherlock insisted, but he wouldn’t explain further. “That is not how I am being tracked.”

“You’re micro-chipped?” John asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it doesn’t matter, John. It’s irrelevant.” Sherlock groaned in frustration. “Don’t you two understand? Someone is just watching me dance from one idiotic puzzle to another. It’s all too random.”

“Sherlock, maybe these six murders will be the break in the case you’re looking for.”

“We’ll just go up to Scotland and have a look around.” John said.

“And then what? Something else happens and I’m baited again? It’s a type of bullying, and the way you stop it is not to engage with it.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, “I could send my men up there and they can muck around and quite frankly waste a lot of time and resources whereas you can go up and sort it out quickly. Maybe afterwards something else will come up, but eventually whoever is doing this is going to get sloppy and we’ll catch him. You’ll catch him.”

“If you hadn’t engaged with Moriarty several years ago, a lot of innocent people would have died and you know it,” John added. “We’ll go do this together, like old times.”

“Six men are dead and maybe because of me,” Sherlock said. “How many more will turn up randomly dead? The real Moriarty knew how to make it a game. This person doesn’t have that skill. It’s just little copycat nonsense.”

“There was a time when you would have considered a case like this to be Christmas. You would have been jumping with glee at the challenge, literally.” John said.

“Maybe I’ve changed,” Sherlock said tersely. “Maybe I’ve grown up a bit.”

“You once said to me, that the game is never over. Just different players. But the players aren’t different, Sherlock. It’s still you and me.”

That made Sherlock stop his protests. Those words were usually magic to him. “Six men killed. All wanted by Interpol. Seems like someone saved Interpol and Scotland Yard a lot of time in tracking them down. Don’t see why I’m needed.”

“Because Inverness is not exactly the murder capitol of Scotland, and I’d like to know why they were found there specifically. So will you go?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock exchanged a glance with John and John quickly said, “I’ll clear it with Mary, and I’ll get someone to take my patient load. So let’s go and deal with this thing. Like old times.”

Sherlock’s expression softened immediately. He had not really worked on anything with John since Magnussen, and before that it was just minor little cases before John’s wedding. Truth was, although he like having the flat to himself, he also missed John’s presence there. Even though they lived entirely separate lives under the same roof, John had been a far better conversationalist than the skull although the skull never contradicted him. Sherlock hailed a taxi and said to John, “Take the next one. There’s something I have to do first.”

***

Sherlock moved his food tray down the line in Bart’s Canteen. There was nothing but a bag of crisps on his tray, but Molly’s tray was quite full. He paid for both their trays and they found an empty table near the windows that overlooked the center courtyard. “I’m off to Scotland on a case. Just wanted you to know. Might be gone for a bit.”

“Okay,” she said nonchalantly as she took a bite of her sandwich. She was desperately trying to deflect attention from herself.

He was not expecting that response. “I’m leaving this afternoon. John’s going with me. Mary let him off nappies duty.”

She simply shrugged again. “Are you going to eat those crisps or are they just going to sit on your tray?”

He handed her the crisps. “Right. So I’ll be in touch when I get back.”

“Fine.” She said. “Let me know when you need to use the labs again and I’ll make sure a workstation is set up for you.”

He cleared his throat and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Molly, we’re okay, you and I, aren’t we?” he asked. He really was not entirely certain.

She shrugged. “Yeah, sure. Why not?” She looked up at him, then took a second look. “You all right? You look a little peaked.”

“I do?” That deflected him. “No, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

She shrugged again. “Well, off you go to Scotland then.”

That was not the response he was expecting. Then again, nothing she was saying was what he was expecting. He tried to process her nonchalance. He was missing something in her subtext. He watched her eat for a moment, then got up. “Thank you.” He turned and walked out of the canteen, and the moment he was outside he texted her.

FALCON NESTING AT BIG BEN. SH

This code meant simply that he was suggesting she temporarily move to a safe location. Although they had not been able to spend much time together lately, he was very concerned for her safety, always afraid that somehow his association with her had put her in danger. Their nights together had become infrequent, and she seemed to somehow be putting him off slightly now. The last two times he had tried to initiate a night together she had texted him ENDURANCE. Was she trying to put him off? Was she trying to break it off? Had he done something again to upset her?

IS IT ON THE NEWS? MH

He frowned. Her response questioned his concern, and he did not like that. He looked up at the windows above him and the word PATHOLOGY under the roof cornice, and he realized he was standing on the exact spot where he had faked his death with Moriarty a few years earlier.

BBC1 ONLINE. SH

I’LL LOOK FOR IT. MH

He sighed with relief. At least she would consider it. He could not force her to move to a safer location, and the absolute safest location he knew was his parents' home. For the moment, however, that location proved difficult on a couple of counts: first that he was not willing to share his relationship with Molly with them, and second that he had never apologized for drugging them at Christmas when the Magnussen deal had gone down so badly. He was avoiding that day of reckoning. He knew that some day he would have to face them, but he was not ready to do so just yet. As a result, communications with his parents had been almost non-existent since that day. Perhaps they would not forgive him. While he had never been particularly close to them, he did not know if he could live with that prospect. And if they did not forgive him, Mycroft would forever hold that over his head. The stupid little brother.

Sometimes in those private moments of doubt, he felt very small indeed.

***

Inverness was idyllic at its best and still beautiful at its worst. The quiet little town on the waterfront between Beauly Firth and Moray Firth had an extremely low crime rate, and a slower pace of life went on there as if the rest of the world did not exist.

Sherlock and John arrived on a small private jet at the Inverness Airport in a pouring rain, and rain was forecast for the next several days. Sherlock was not certain how much this would hamper the investigation of the crime scenes. He lit a cigarette almost as soon as he deboarded, but he choked immediately and began to cough. He’d had a cough rattling around in his chest for several days, and whatever cough syrup he had been taking did manage to bring the spasms under control long enough for a little sleep, but then they would start up again. He tried to keep the cough under control around John to avoid John’s annoying tendency to diagnose any little ailment. That’s all it was – a little ailment, and he was not going to allow it to slow him down or stop him. He opened his umbrella, and he and John walked the short distance across the tarmac to the private terminal.

Inside the terminal DI Lestraude was already waiting for them.

“Lucky you getting a private jet while I just spent 14 hours on trains.”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard actually in Scotland. Somewhere there’s irony in that.” Sherlock said. “Isn’t this a little out of your jurisdiction or did my brother send you again?”

“I need to see what’s going on for myself.” He said. “And it’s nice to get out of the office once in a while, get out in the field. Way out in the field.”

“I’ll need to look at the bodies, of course. Where’s the morgue?”

“Only morgue is at Raigmore Hospital.”

The Raigmore Hospital morgue was very similar to St. Bartholomews but a little smaller. Nevertheless, they did have room for more than a dozen bodies at any one time. As each body was wheeled out, Sherlock looked over them carefully while John gave a cursory look but also looked at the medical examiner’s paperwork.

Two of the men had been found on the banks of Moray Firth, their lungs full of water but with no signs of a struggle. One had been strangled, one shot in the back; one was poisoned according to the toxicology report, and the sixth man was found deep in the woods by a hiker and his dog. Cause of death was unknown. He had been dead the longest and was in the furthest state of decay. John looked away. He may have seen all types of battle wounds and loved the excitement of danger, but he did not like looking at rotting flesh. He did not have the stomach for it. Sherlock, however, did not flinch and got even closer.

“Why would all six victims turn up at the same time?” he mumbled to himself. “And why six? If he was trying to catch my attention, wouldn’t one have sufficed?”

“Hard to say.” Lestrade said.

“Unfortunately they’ve been removed from the crime scenes before I got here.” Sherlock groused. “Not that it would have mattered with this last one.”

“They’ve still got the scenes taped off for you.” Lestrade said.

“I think whatever residual evidence remains has been damaged by the rain.” Sherlock said.

“Perhaps that was part of the killer’s plan?” John volunteered.

“Only three of them were outside. The other three were found in various places inside and those crime scenes are still protected.” Lestrade said.

Sherlock looked down at the last victim. “We’ll start with this one.”

Sherlock, John and Lestrade were driven over the Kessock Bridge by a local policeman and up the A9 where they pulled over at the edge of Muckernick Wood. It was raining, and all were wearing Wellies and rain gear. The ground was thoroughly saturated, making for a slippery descent from the side of the road into the thick woods. Sherlock slipped and skidded several feet, saving himself from a muddy downfall by catching a low tree branch, but he nearly pulled John down in the process.

“We couldn’t have picked a drier day, I suppose?” John asked.

“Snow is forecast for the next week.” The policeman, Detective Essich said. “This is the driest day we’re supposed to have.

“Hardly reassuring.” Sherlock quipped. He suddenly stopped and held out his hand. Snowflakes mixed in with the rain. It was turning colder by the moment. All of them were already sniffling a bit.

They came to the bottom of the incline to find a half-frozen little stream, clearly the result of so much precipitation. Sherlock stepped into the stream, but it was deeper than anticipated, and the waters came up over the top of his Wellies and flooded the insides with icy water. He yelped in shock and quickly pulled himself up to the other side. He had to pause to empty his boots of excess water, but it was too late for his sodden feet which were now icy cold.

There were days when the joy of detective work evaded him, and this was one of them. It just seemed like one miserable moment after the other of things that were beyond his control.

The foursome continued a few hundred feet into the woods and came to a thick grouping of trees and bushes that was taped off with police tape. A shallow pit in the ground indicated where the body had been found. Sherlock walked around the edges of the police tape looking for any clue. No indication that the body had been dragged there. No indication of a struggle. No maggots. Too cold for that.

They could all see their breath now. The temperature was dropping rapidly, but all eyes were on Sherlock. No one would leave until he was finished. “What do you think? Are we about done here?” John asked. He voiced what Lestrade and Essich were thinking.

Sherlock’s brain was focused on dissecting the visual clues of the pit. He did not hear John, but he suddenly looked up. “He wasn’t killed here, and he didn’t die here. The killer brought him here after he died. I’m not certain we’ll find that any of the men were killed where they were found, especially those found outside. No, something else is going on here. These are hit style killings. The question is, why is someone so determined to get my attention with hit style killings of men wanted by Interpol?”

His phone buzzed with a text. THE EAGLE IS AWAKE. BW

Sherlock grimaced at the news. At least he had two armed policemen with him if there were trouble, but he suddenly felt as if he was in the cross-hairs of a rifle again. Lestrade was not the best shot and he had no idea if Essich could hit anything at all. John was the best shot he knew, but John’s licence to carry had still not been restored to him.

KILL THE EAGLE. SH

Sherlock did not know for certain if his team of hackers could permanently disable the satellite, but he would try. It put the British government at a disadvantage not to be able to track their chipped agents, but it put the agents at an advantage of not being tracked by an assassin.

John rubbed his hands together and blew warm air on them. “I could use a hot coffee. Sherlock, are you coming?”

Sherlock’s feet were painfully cold to walk on, and he felt chilled through. “I need to return to the hotel and change.” He said. The climb back up the ravine to the car was nearly impossible, and Sherlock found himself strangely out of breath and exhausted when they reached the car. To make matters worse, he was shivering, and the heater in the car had stopped working. It was a miserably cold car ride but thankfully a short ride.

They took Sherlock back to the hotel and he promised to catch up with them, but he asked John to stay with him, even though John was not armed. Sherlock did not know how long it would take his team to hack the satellite, if they would get caught, if he would be killed within the next twenty-four hours. Wiggins was taking his time to reply, and that was never good.

He needed John’s help to get his boots off, and when he peeled back his socks, his feet were starting to turn blue. “Why do you have to be so bloody stoic all the time?” John asked.

“Frostbite?”

“Don’t think so. But run yourself a hot bath and soak. Hot as you can stand it.”

Sherlock stood up and shed his coat and let it drop to the floor. He coughed a little and winced in pain. John did not notice. “John, order some room service. Tea. “

He soaked in a hot bath until his shivering had long stopped and his feet had pinked up nicely. He started to dress in his day clothes but suddenly knew he did not have the energy to continue. He simply put on his long pajamas and blue dressing gown, and he walked back into the main room. John was still there.

“Better?” John asked.

“Not really.” Sherlock said. He coughed again, this time for longer. It exhausted him.

“Don’t like the sound of that.” John said.

“It’s nothing.” Sherlock dismissed his statement with a wave of his hand. “Just a little cough. Been dogging me for several days. Got any lozenges?”

“Why would I have lozenges?”

“You’re a doctor. Aren’t you supposed to carry a mini pharmacy with you at all times for emergencies?”

John rolled his eyes. “I’ll go see if they have some in the shop downstairs.”

“And some cough syrup. Cherry-flavored not that nasty green stuff.”

But even after his hot shower, Sherlock shivered miserably under several blankets. John brought him a fresh cup of tea and put his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re burning up. Definitely coming down with something.”

“My throat is killing me. Like daggers.” Sherlock coughed a little, spilling his tea. The cough was tight and painful. “Damn.”

“Probably just a virus.” John said, but on intuition, he kept the adjoining door to Sherlock’s room open that night to listen if Sherlock needed anything.

Sherlock slept fitfully that night, his fever climbing even higher until he was hallucinating. “Molly! Molly!” He called out.

John awoke from the other room and was quickly at the door. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sat up, his eyes glazed over. “Moriarty is going to get Molly. He knows. He knows.”

John flipped on the light and squinted at his sick friend. Sherlock was flushed with fever, and his breathing was ragged. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned towards John. “He’s coming in the window. He’s coming to get her. He knows she helped me. Shoot him, John! Kill him!”

“He’s not coming in the window, Sherlock.” John picked up the phone in the room and dialed the front desk. “We need an ambulance.”

Sherlock’s phone buzzed at that moment, and John took a quick look at it.

THE EAGLE SLEEPS. BW

John did not know what it meant, but he often did not understand the texts that Sherlock received.

Sherlock was taken to Raigmore Hospital, and they immediately took x-rays of his chest and confirmed John’s growing suspicions that this was not a virus after all but pneumonia. Sherlock was admitted and started on a course of heavy antibiotics which brought his fever down and also began to tame the fierce, oxygen-depleting cough he had developed. His pneumonia was not so debilitating that it required an extensive hospital stay, and he was released within forty-eight hours with semi-quarantine orders. His immune system had taken a hard hit, and any other virus could seriously compromise his health. He was ordered on bed rest for a week. Sherlock and John returned to the hotel.

“Now is as good a time as any to give up cigarettes again,” John said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve tried. I’ve done the patches. I’m no good at it.” He coughed a little, trying fiercely to control it, but he went into a 30-minute coughing spasm. He coughed so hard he began to retch.

“You’ll crack a rib if you keep coughing like that.” John said. “That’s why you have to give up the cigarettes. Your body can’t handle recovering from pneumonia while you’re also caking your lungs with tobacco tar. You are off the cigarettes and that’s final.”

Sherlock collapsed back into his pillows in exhaustion. He knew if he tried to speak it would just trigger another coughing spasm. He did not have the strength to argue. In fact, he felt incredibly exhausted all the time. His medicines revived him for short intervals each time he took them, but then the exhaustion settled back in. He would not allow John to say the “C” word – cough – nor would he allow himself to think it as even the mental suggestion would trigger a spasm that could last nearly an hour.

Mycroft was informed of Sherlock’s condition, but when Sherlock tried to hold a conversation with him, another coughing fit occurred and he was unable to continue. It took a few more days of antibiotic treatment for Sherlock to even begin to feel a little of his vigor returning.

Mary Skyped with Sherlock. “Don’t try to say anything. We both know what that will lead to.” she said. She held up baby Elizabeth and said to the baby, “Why yes, sweetheart, your Uncle Sherlock will be happy to take you to the park when you’re a little older. He loves the park. And yes, darling, he’d be delighted to have tea parties with you. He can teach you all about serviettes designs.”

John looked at his daughter. “How is it possible she’s grown so much in just a week?” he marveled.

Sherlock texted Mycroft. SEND PRIVATE HELICOPTER TO FETCH ME AT ONCE. SH

He did not have to wait long to hear from Mycroft.

SORRY. NOT AN EMERGENCY. PRIVATE JET WILL HAVE TO DO. MH

The private jet returned to RAF Northolt carrying John and Sherlock, and they were met by a government car and whisked immediately away from the RAF base. Lestrade had already returned to London a few days earlier.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head when she saw Sherlock. “I really should call your mother.”

“Don’t you dare!” He said.

“But Sherlock! Someone needs to be here to look after you.” She insisted.

“Bring me tea and broth if you must,” he said. He started another coughing spasm.

“Janine.” John said. “Maybe she could stop by? Maybe she’s forgiven you by now?”

“Oh she was lovely. I liked her.” Mrs. Hudson said. “But all those stories she sold to the press. Really bad form.”

Sherlock shook his head and continued coughing. He could not speak at all for the coughing.

“Well, I can’t stay here with you, Sherlock,” John said. “I’ve seen you through the worst of this, and I’ve got to get home now.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “It’ll be me then. C’mon, Sherlock. Let’s get you settled in.”

“I’ll leave you a schedule of his medications.” John said. “He needs to rest and stay quarantined until he has time to recover or he’ll catch everything going around.”

“Pneumonia makes you weak as a kitten,” she said as he helped Sherlock out of his coat. “C’mon, luv. Sit down in your chair and put your feet up.”

He was still coughing. He did not dare try to speak again, and he was doing his best to control the spasm but was failing. He sat down in his chair. She pulled John’s chair closer and helped him put his feet up. “I’ll just make you some tea.” She said and she quickly left his apartment.

John followed Mrs. Hudson down to her apartment .

“I’ve never seen him like that,” she muttered.

“It’s this Moriarty thing.” John said. “It’s running him into the ground. It’s going to kill him one way or the other.”

“But what can we do, John?”

“Nothing we can do really.” He said. “He shares the legwork but not the brainwork. He’s working it out in his head. The antibiotics will put him back on his feet, but you know how he is. Comes back fighting even harder, and then he’ll have a relapse and it’ll just cycle downwards while he’s on this obsession. He will solve this one, but he will kill himself doing it.”

“Don’t say that.” She scolded.

Mycroft came by to visit a little later, but he found his brother deep asleep on the sofa under a thick comforter, a tray of medicines and tea on the table beside him. He did not want to wake him. He simply wanted to verify for himself how ill his brother was.

It took Sherlock nearly a month to recover from the pneumonia, but he did not feel as if he had let the Moriarty case slide or the investigation at Inverness. He had seen all he needed to see at Inverness. The bodies all now were buried and all the crime scenes had returned to their normal state.

Yet with all the information he had gathered, he felt no closer to any answers.


	11. Chapter 11

_The greater your capacity to love, the greater your capacity to feel the pain. - Unknown._

He wanted to see her, but she had texted back ENDURANCE. Again. He was not certain why she had responded with that word. After all, he’d been absent from Barts for weeks with the Inverness case and pneumonia. He thought certainly she would be practically jumping in his arms. While he had never been particularly fond of such displays of affection and while she had been so careful with not invading his personal space when they had first starting seeing each other, he now had a little appreciation for her enthusiasm and secretly relished the displays in the privacy of her flat. Surely she would hardly be able to contain herself after their time apart. Or so he thought.

Although he could have continued his examinations of evidence under his own microscope at 221B, he rang up St. Barthomews and arranged for lab time. He asked John to go with him to keep John actively involved in the case but also because he liked John to have more time at the microscope. He often felt John did not spend enough time on the minutiae of a case, and he liked to help him hone his skills in examining evidence. He had seen John improve greatly in their years together, but he always wanted to push him further. Also, John would be a good buffer in case Molly were upset with Sherlock about something, though he could not think of anything he’d done to upset her.

Molly had texted back ENDURANCE because she had not been feeling well all day but could not pinpoint the reason although she did not feel unwell enough to miss work. She always attributed any shift in how she felt to her changing hormones, and as she was half way through her second trimester, she had gone through a lot of changes but generally had felt very well. She had not even been particularly bothered by morning sickness, and her only unusual craving had been for tinned tuna. She normally found the smell of opening a tin of tuna to be akin to opening a tin of cat food, and she’d always been put off by it. Now, however, she kept a personal supply.

Although she was feeling slightly off she knew that Sherlock would be at Barts to do some tests for a case, and she had not seen him for nearly four weeks as he’d been away in northern Scotland. It was unusual for him to be gone so long from London, but the multiple murder crime scene had been spread over a vast area, and some of the areas were almost inaccessibly remote. She also knew that he’d been felled with a light case of pneumonia that had kept him down for a week at a little highland hotel.

There was no denying during his absence that she had developed a baby bump, but she could still disguise it with loose clothing. Even so, he had once deduced by a single glance that she had put on three pounds, so what would he deduce now with a single glance? She would not be able to disguise it from him when they would be intimate again, and then she knew he might immediately reject her anyhow, so she was not rushing into that moment of truth. She planned to tell him the next time he came over, and although it made her anxious, there was no point in trying to conceal it anymore.

She purposefully avoided being in the labs when she knew he first arrived. She did not want to appear anxious to see him, especially not in front of John. She did manage a quick but distant peek through the door windows, however, and she noticed that John was with him. That was good. He was always a little more focused when John was there, and she would draw less attention to herself.

She took a deep breath and then came in through the doors. “Sherlock. John.” She tried to sound surprised. Sherlock glanced up for a moment from his microscope but then continued his intense observation. John was also at a microscope. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Coffee would be marvelous.” Sherlock said without looking up.

“None for me.” John added.

“Oh I think we’ve got past that. I’m not your gopher. You know where it is.” Molly said simply.

Sherlock shot her a quick side glance. She did not usually answer like that. He was a little more aware that her answers often contained subtext. Was this related to ENDURANCE? Was she angry with him?

“I meant with your work,” she added.

“Yeah, sorry. Of course.” John said quickly, but Sherlock did not apologize.

“A third person can help the work go faster, and I’ve got a little time on my lunch break.” she said cheerfully.

Sherlock stole another side glance at her making certain John did not see the movement, but just as quickly as he looked, he was back at his specimen study. She was not sure if his side glance was a glare, scold or what sort of acknowledgement it was. When she got no further response, however, she sighed. “Fine. I’ll get your coffee.”

“Why can’t you get your own coffee for once?” John asked.

“Breaks my concentration.” Sherlock said simply.

She returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup of coffee and set it down near Sherlock. Again a side glance, but he did not sip the coffee. She cleared her throat noticeably and he said slowly, “Thank. You.”

“May I take a look?” she asked.

Sherlock clearly was not going to give up his microscope, and he was slightly annoyed with her enthusiasm as he found it distracting. Her presence by itself was distracting, and he worked hard to remain aloof to her in John’s presence. He would love to have had a private moment with her just to exchange pleasantries, even to see if she wanted to have dinner later, but he could not. As far as he knew, John was still in the dark about his relationship with her, and he was determined to keep it that way.

John rubbed his eyes and looked up. “Be my guest. I don’t even know what I’m looking at anymore.” He stood up and Molly sat down at the microscope. As soon as she sat down, however, she felt an unusually sharp abdominal cramp, and she caught her breath although she tried not to show it.

She looked into the microscope at the crystallized structures. “It looks like blood, but blood doesn’t make this pattern. Has it been treated with something?” The cramp was still with her, and she tried to ignore it and focus on the structure on the slide.

“No. Came out of the victim like this.” Sherlock said without looking up.

“A strong chemical compound. Inhaled. I’ve seen this pattern before but it’s usually in tissue samples. Chlorine—“ She stopped talking suddenly. The cramp was intensifying. She could not look anymore, and she wanted to get out of the lab without raising any suspicion, but now she was not sure if she could get off the chair.

“You all right?” John asked. He could see she was trying to hide some sort of physical distress, and the color suddenly drained from her face. “Molly?” Now Sherlock looked up a little. He heard the concern in John’s voice but he could not see Molly clearly behind the microscope, and John was partially blocking what little view he had.

Molly turned to John and whispered something, and John looked at Sherlock. “Get out!” He said firmly. “Get some help! And a gurney!” he said. When Sherlock hesitated out of confusion, John pointed to the door. “Go!” Sherlock got up quickly and left the lab. John put his arm around Molly to offer her support. “I’ve got you.”

There were tears in her eyes. “I’m afraid to move.”

“It’s too late for that now,” he said gently, “Molly, how far along are you?”

“Twenty weeks,” she said. “I’m losing it, aren’t I?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, but I suspect you are.” he said as he put his arm around her. “I’ve got you. C’mon.”

Molly held her belly and slowly slid off the chair, but the moment she was standing, she let out a painful groan and a gush of blood ran down the insides of her light colored pants. John immediately helped her down to the floor.

“I need to push,” she grimaced, and she bore down. More blood. John quickly helped her to get out of her pants and underwear. Blood, blood clots and placental tissue and amniotic fluid were inside of her clothing, and the only thing between her the lab floor was her lab coat which was also now covered in blood. John quickly put on a pair of latex gloves, and she bore down again. The baby was coming quickly. The cramping and contractions were suddenly fiercely intense.

Sherlock returned a few minutes later with two nurses and a gurney, but John would not move her onto the gurney. She was in the midst of delivering a very premature baby that would have no chance of survival. The preemie would be even too small to be considered a micro-preemie. It would never be viable, and even if born alive would simply be allowed to die.

“Sherlock, wait outside and give us some privacy, and don’t let anyone in!” John said as he tried to block Sherlock’s view and give Molly privacy. Sherlock still was not certain what was going on, but he could smell blood. “Please, we have it covered. Out.” Sherlock turned and left, and John turned his attention back to Molly. She bore down again, and the little baby began to emerge with a head slightly larger than a golf ball.

The baby was born alive but barely, and it was so small that it could have curled up in one of John’s hands. “Let me see.” Molly asked, and John gently placed the infant on her chest. It was a boy. The baby moved his little arms and legs in a couple of spasms as he gasped for air that burned his undeveloped lungs. He made a desperate squeak and then never moved again. He died within moments of having lived.

John handed her a pair of scissors and asked gently, “Do you want to cut the cord?”

She took the scissors and cut the cord, and immediately she began to cry as she clasped the infant to her.

"Molly,” John asked gently, “is there someone you want me to call? Family? The baby’s father?”

She shook her head and kept her hands over the baby. “He doesn’t know.” She couldn’t wipe her eyes or nose because she would not let go of the baby. “Please. My phone is in my pocket. Please take some pictures of him.”

John removed his gloves and pulled her phone from her lab coat breast pocket. She opened her hands to uncover the tiny baby, and John took several photos. “All right. Let’s get you upstairs and cleaned up. Do you want me to take the baby now?”

She shook her head and covered the baby again, always keeping one hand on it even as they helped her out of her lab coat and onto the gurney. The lab coat was left on the floor in the blood with her pants and underwear.

Sherlock was standing several feet from the lab doors when they wheeled Molly out. Molly did not look at him, and she was covered up to her neck with a sheet and blanket, so the baby was hidden from his view. John sent the two nurses on and turned to Sherlock.

“What’s wrong? Is she all right?” he asked.

“She will be.” John said. “I’m just going to go with them, and I’ll be back in a few minutes. You might want to stay outside the lab. Go get something to eat in the canteen.”

“But I’ve got specimens on the microscope!” He insisted.

“Outside of the lab.” John reiterated, and he turned and quickened his pace to catch up with the gurney.

Sherlock looked at the lab doors then back at John who disappeared around a corner. He looked back at the lab doors, then immediately headed in. The evidence greeted him immediately, and he stood there in shock for several minutes, even as a cleaning crew came in and removed all traces of anything amiss. He was not entirely aware of them being there, and it was only the smell of disinfectant and bleach that brought him to his senses and by then all evidence was gone as if it had never existed at all.

* * *

Molly was moved to a private room, but she continued to hold her little dead infant to her chest. The infant had been wrapped in a small towel. She would not let anyone take it from her. John closed her door and pulled up a chair beside her. He rested his hand on her arm, and she tensed. “Molly, I’m not going to take him from you. It’s all right. You hold him as long as you want to. “

“I know he’s dead.” She said. “I know.”

He gently stroked her arm. “I know.”

“I know he wasn’t viable, but he’s not medical waste either. I know what they do with abortions and miscarriages, but he’s a human being. He’s my little human being. Mine.”

“Do you want him preserved for a funeral? I can make sure they take care of him and get him ready. Do you want me to help you with that?”

“Do they make coffins this small?” She actually knew the answer, but she needed to hear him say it.

“They come in all sizes,” John assured her. “Or if you want to have him cremated, we can arrange that too.”

“No cremation,” she said adamantly.

“Okay, then. We’ll get the body preserved for a funeral.”

"Will you come? To the funeral? You and Mary?”

“Of course,” he assured her.

She hesitated a moment longer, then handed him the tiny wrapped bundle.

“I’ll take good care of him, I promise,” John said gently, and he leaned down and kissed her on the brow. “I promise.”

* * *

Sherlock stood in the dark corner of Molly’s hospital room. He’d created a diversion to keep the nurses at bay, and he quietly crossed the semi-darkened room and approached her bed. “Molly.” His voice was barely a whisper.

She had been sleeping, but she opened her eyes and looked at him. She then turned away as he sat down on the bed beside her. “Go away.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice was gentle and filled with concern.

“What difference would it have made? You don’t want children. Well, you got your wish.” She began to cry. “Please just go away.”

“What can I do to help?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She said. “It’s already done. It’s over.” She did want him to go, but she didn’t want him to go. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. It happened and I couldn’t bear to get rid of it. It was selfish of me, I know. I would have raised it on my own and never would have asked you for anything.”

He was trying to process the information as quickly as possible, but it was heavy and complex. “What has happened has happened. It’s for the best.”

That was the last thing she wanted him to say, and it was a dagger, even if unwittingly. That brought a fresh sob from her. “But I really wanted him!”

Him. A boy. A son. He groaned at the news. He would have preferred never to have known the sex, but now it gave the child a different kind of legitimacy in his mind. It was not an “it” anymore. It was male. A son. He had created a son.

She pulled out her phone and flipped through the pictures and found the pictures John had taken. “I held him, and he was perfect. He was so tiny, and he was alive for a moment. And then he died on my chest.” She showed him the pictures. As he thumbed through the pictures, each was like a little stab to his heart.

He did not know how to comfort her. “I don’t know what to do, Molly. I’m not clever enough for this. Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

“I just wanted a part of you with me always, because I don’t think we’re going to make it you and I.” She said tearfully. “I just loved him so much, and now I have milk coming in and no baby.” She turned away from him then, certain he would simply walk out, and the deep, painful sobs rose up from her core. She had never experienced such depths of despair, even when her beloved father had passed away. She had lost a child and was fairly convinced that she had also lost whatever tenuous hold she had on Sherlock.

He did not know what his next move was with her. Was she rejecting him? Did she want to be alone or was she inviting him to stay? It was confusing, and he disliked confusion. He stood up and looked at the door to her room, then back down at her. He knew the kind of despair she felt. He’d had many private moments like that, and he had suffered through them without the benefit of so much as a comforting touch or word. He had once said to John, “Alone is what I have. Alone protects me.” While it had been said as a ruse to get John out of the way before a rooftop meeting with Moriarty, it had had tinges of truth. He had been alone for a long time, and his decision not to have any personal involvements had saved him from distractions from his work and from potential heartache. Molly, however, had never lived by the standards he set for himself. She was kind and generous, always willing to bear her heart on her sleeve. She embodied the qualities that were largely foreign to his personal experience and makeup but that he quietly admired in others, even if he did not fully understand them.

“Molly.” He slipped his hands between her sheets and gently lifted her into his arms and cradled her to his chest. She put her arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder. His jaw tightened and he tried to blink back his own tears, but it was too late.

* * *

There was a fog and drizzling rain that night, and he walked down to the harbour to the foghorns and quiet splash of water against the docks.

He had never considered being a father. It was the furthest thing from the life he envisioned for himself that he could imagine, but now a child had already been created and lost, and for some reason it hurt. The little human being infused with his own DNA no longer existed, and he strangely felt as if a chunk of his heart had been ripped out. He was shocked and grieved all at the same time. He knew there was a difference between the body’s physical heart that pumped the blood through his veins and the heart that existed in the mind that colored all life, but he was certain his physical heart was actually breaking. It hurt. Moriarty had taunted him in his mind palace with the words, “Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. Death. It’s all good. It’s all good.” Sherlock had shielded himself for long from those feelings. He had blocked them out, claiming they got in the way of his ability to use cold, hard reasoning, but the truth was that he had no coping skills. He had never developed the proper mechanisms for processing deeper feelings. He avoided them religiously and for the very reason he was now experiencing…it hurt, and it was overwhelming.

Part of his not wanting fatherhood was his own struggle growing up as a gifted child. He secretly feared having a gifted child since it had created for him a sense of isolation and left him mercilessly at the hands of bullies, even more so from his gifted older brother. He was never willing to put a child through those experiences.

He also doubted his skills with children. He did not associate with them and he never had, even as a child. He had almost no ability to identify with their interests unless they happened also to be his interests.

Mycroft’s voice taunted him from his mind palace, “Caring is a disadvantage. All life ends.”

“Shut up!” he screamed in the night air. “Shut up! Shut up!”

A few night workers turned to him and yelled at him to go home as if he were drunk or high on drugs.

He opened his coat and jacket, then ripped open his shirt, sending buttons skittering across the wet pavement. He pulled open his shirt. "Here I am! Shoot me! Just shoot me! Where are you? Shoot me, damn it!"

Caring had become a disadvantage. It had made him vulnerable to emotions he did not want to experience because they got in the way. It had brought the potential for things into his world that he had shielded himself from because they interfered with his gifts. Now the pain he felt in his heart was more intense than he’d felt from being shot by Mary the previous year, and it was overwhelming. He was in danger and knew it simply because he’d never developed a true coping mechanism for dealing with emotional pain. It was easier and far more efficient just to block the pain with his drug of choice. He knew where to buy the drug, and it was calling his name like a Siren.

Mycroft had told John that Sherlock’s habit was never dead but only sleeping, and on this night Sherlock felt the monster habit had woken from sleep and was demanding to be fed. The last time he’d taken any illegal drugs was when he was trying to get the attention of newspaper magnate Charles Augustus Magnussen, but the danger of sliding back into drug abuse was always there. It nipped at his heels and demanded attention. For the most part he could ignore it with a case. On this night he craved a hit of cocaine. He did not prefer to snort it as that interfered with his sense of smell which he keenly relied on in his investigations. A seven-percent solution injected directly into his bloodstream was his method of choice.

He had never lost contact with his dealers although he visited them rarely. Sometimes they were useful for information more than drugs, but information was not on the menu tonight. Cocaine was purchased, and he tucked it into his coat pocket.

* * *

Sherlock used his teeth and his right hand to tighten the rubber tourniquet on his left arm just above his elbow. He snapped the veins in the crook of his elbow and one rose up plump and ready. He picked up the readied syringe filled with the seven percent cocaine solution and tapped it, then gave the plunger a gentle push to force the solution up the needle and force out any air bubbles. Satisfied it was perfect, he made a tight fist with his left hand, then injected it the needle into the bulging vein. He grimaced for a moment and shuddered. It had been a long time since he had taken cocaine, but as he pushed the plunger and the cocaine flooded his system, his eyes rolled back into his head, and his world began to spin.

* * *

Sherlock beat on John’s front door two hours later. “John! John!” Tears were streaming down his face and his breathing was ragged. “John!”

The door opened to find John and Mary still putting on their robes and squinting in the light. Sherlock collapsed to his knees in the foyer.

“Sherlock… what’s happened?” Mary asked.

“Are you hurt? Are you all right?” John asked.

They closed the door behind him, and John tried to help him to his feet, but Sherlock brushed him off and instead reached in his pocket and pulled out the small packet of cocaine. “Take it. Get rid of it.”

John swore under his breath. “Are you high now?” John asked. “I’m calling Mycroft.”

“I only took one hit.” he insisted. “I swear!”

“You’re bloody high and banging on my door at bloody 2:00 in the morning?” John asked.

Sherlock hesitated, then drew a deep ragged breath as his tears flowed freely in a grieving sob. “I can’t do this anymore,” was all he managed.

“Do what?”

Mary motioned John to lower his voice. After all, the baby was sleeping. “John, put a kettle on.” Mary insisted. “Please.”

John stormed out of the foyer, and Mary put her arm around Sherlock. “What is it? Hmm? What can’t you do anymore?” Her voice was sweet and tender. “Why don’t we go have a sit and you can tell me what’s wrong.” She helped him to his feet and into the living room where he collapsed back onto the couch. Mary sat down beside him and rubbed his back. “Tell me.”

“I can’t take it anymore. I’m not cut out for this, Mary. Never was,”

“You’re hyperventilating. Just calm down. Deep breaths. It’s all right.”

“Why can’t things go back the way they were before? Why?”

She put her hand on his cheek. “What things?”

The baby began to cry, then wail loudly. “John. Please get the baby,” she called after him.

John growled and left the kitchen to check on the baby, and a few minutes later brought their daughter out.

“She’s hungry.” John said. “That’s your department.”

Mary took the baby and began to nurse her, discreetly covering herself and the baby’s head with her robe. Sherlock looked away instinctively.

Sherlock stood up suddenly. “I should go. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He started for the door, but John caught his arm.

“You don’t get to wake us at 2:00 in the morning and walk out without an explanation.” John glared at him, then grabbed Sherlock by the coat collar and roughly pushed him back against the wall. “I am not responsible for you. I have a wife and a child, and you will never come here again when you are high. Do you understand?”

“It was a mistake. Sorry.” Sherlock wrenched out of John’s grip. He pulled open the door. “Really, I’m sorry.” He walked out the door and shut it behind him.

John was seething as he walked back towards Mary. “I’m calling Mycroft.”

* * *

Sherlock had wanted to tell them, but he could not tell them. No one knew about his relationship with Molly, and that was the protection he needed, not that John would believe him anyhow. Still, the burden was almost too much to bear. He felt he was doing her a disservice by keeping up a relationship that was so secretive, but he could not bear to leave her.

* * *

John and Mary crawled back in bed together, but neither was able to sleep.

"What do you suppose could have upset him so?” Mary asked.

“At this point I don’t bloody care. He wants to do this to himself, I can’t help him.”

“Go after him.”

“Whatever it is, he’s not going to tell us anyhow. Best leave him to sort it out himself.”

“You called Mycroft?” When he nodded, she turned to him. “Did anything unusual happen today?”

John shrugged. “It was a normal day except for the one thing, but that had nothing to do with him.”

“What thing?”

“We were at Barts in the lab, and Molly Hooper had a miscarriage, poor thing. I wouldn’t tell you that except she asked if you and I would attend the funeral. I told her we would.”

“Yes, of course.” Mary agreed. “Poor girl. Does she have family near?”

“Don’t know anything about her, really.” John said.

“Well she’s obviously seeing someone.” Her eyes suddenly opened wider. “It’s Sherlock.”

“What? No. He barely gives her the time of day when he sees her.”

“Her bedroom is or was one of his bolt holes.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“When he went missing from hospital and we were all looking for him, I asked her if she knew any of his bolt holes, and she said she gave him her bedroom. She stayed in the spare bedroom.”

“When did he do that?”

“Well, after he faked his death he was there for a while. I don’t know how long, but he still goes there on occasion. Things have changed.”

“She was engaged to Tom, and I’m sure he didn’t go there when they were engaged.”

“Tom was a Sherlock wannabe, but didn’t you see her at our reception? She was twisting that ring off her finger, and she only had eyes for Sherlock. That’s the night she and Tom broke it off, you know. She wasn’t wearing the ring at the end of the evening.”

“How can you possibly know these things?” he asked incredulously.

“It’s Sherlock, John.”

“There’s nothing between Sherlock and Molly Hooper,” he insisted. “They’re just friends. Go to sleep, wife.” He kissed her sweetly, then rolled away, but his eyes would not close. He wondered if indeed there was something between Sherlock and Molly. He tried to dismiss the possibility of it, but he could not entirely. Were there clues he had missed? Mary snuggled up behind him and put her arm around him.

“You know I’m right, don’t you?” she said quietly.

“Yes,” he admitted grudgingly. “How long do you suppose it’s been going on?”

“I’m guessing since the whole Moriarty thing started up again.”

She was certain she could get the truth out of Sherlock, but she wondered if she should try. If he was hiding a relationship with Molly, he had a good reason to be secretive, and exposing his secret might not be the wisest course of action.

“But why would he have got involved with Molly now of all times when he’s so strung out on this fake Moriarty business?” John asked, but as soon as he said the words, he knew and he let out an “Ahhh.” He turned back to Mary to find her smiling at him. “What?”

“I knew you’d figure it out.”

“But Sherlock in an intimate relationship. I can’t wrap my brain around it. And she said the father didn’t know, and Sherlock definitely acted confused and like he didn’t know. Maybe it was a one-time thing and she got pregnant and never told him.”

Mary groaned in frustration. Once in a while John’s arguments could be really thick. “That may have been what she wanted you to think, but probably something has been going on for a while. It takes two to play their game. She’s being just as discreet as he is. She hid the truth about his fake death for two years, remember?” She stroked his cheek tenderly. “His heart has woken up, John. It’s been waking up ever since we got married really. Then the whole Magnussen thing and being sent on that black ops mission. He’s had the rug pulled out from under him over and over and he’s overwhelmed and probably terrified to death by it so he’s been getting comfort and sex from Molly at the very least. He’s in uncharted territory with that too. And now to lose a child? Clearly he knows it was his. What else would he have been so upset over? He needs you more than ever right now. He’s using drugs to quiet his pain. You need to help him.”

“Honestly, he needs a kind of help I can’t give him.”

“You’re his best friend, and you can help him sort things out from a man’s point of view. Give him a shoulder to lean on, steady him on his feet. Just be there for him.”

He knew she was right, and he kissed her sweetly. “What made you so smart?”

“It’s a woman thing,” she smiled and rolled away.

* * *

Mycroft was waiting at 221B Baker Street when Sherlock stumbled in the doorway a few hours later. “It isn’t often your drug habit gets me out of bed, brother dear.”

“Then go home.” Sherlock insisted.

“I would except for the fact that I did indeed get woken from a very sound sleep, and John knows that’s only permissible in the most serious situation. I’ve taken the liberty of contacting three of the top drug rehabilitation facilities in England, and all of them are willing to take you first thing in the morning.”

“I don’t need drug rehab.” Sherlock said. “I need you to leave my flat.”

“Don’t make me force you.”

“I don’t need rehab!” Sherlock snapped loudly.

“You need help.”

“Not from you. Go home.”

“No. I’m staying here, at least until the sun rises. You had cocaine in your possession, and John insisted you were high which I have now verified with my own eyes. I don’t trust you.”

“Are you going to upgrade my surveillance status from level three to level four now? I don’t need you to play government watchdog or babysitter or nanny in my life. Sod off.” Sherlock stomped back into his bedroom and slammed the door shut. He hung his coat on the back of his bedroom door and collapsed onto his bed. Although he felt completely spent emotionally and physically, he could not sleep, and he desperately needed sleep. He got up after a few minutes and grabbed up his coat. He looked out his window at the alley below. One of Mycroft’s men was on watch and made eye contact with Sherlock. There would be no escaping out of the window. _Damn._ He flung open his bedroom door and stormed back into the living room. “Call off your men! Now!”

“You think I like using government resources to monitor you?”

“I am a private citizen! You have no right!”

“You are a public figure and a potential liability to the security of this nation as you have proven more than once. I have every right.”

“Call off your men, Mycroft, or I swear I will break every bone in your body.”

The two brothers faced each other squarely. One had the political power of the nation in his hand, and the other had the physical strength to inflict severe bodily harm. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “You’re hiding something, and it isn’t drugs. No, there’s something more.”

“If I find I am being followed by your men, I will take them out permanently one by one. You will leave me alone. Do you understand?”

“The Crown has pardoned you once. Don’t expect that generosity twice.” Mycroft said tersely, but he recognized that he was in a losing battle. Sherlock was physically stronger and was not afraid to use his strength. “There will come a day, Sherlock, when you will want protection, and I may not be inclined to give it. Keep that in mind.”

Mycroft picked up his coat and umbrella and walked out of the flat, and Sherlock slammed the door behind him.

* * *

Sherlock put the Moriarty case work on hold. He tried to still his racing mind to focus on being there for Molly, whatever that meant. He was not quite sure. He had always assigned emotions as little more than chemical reactions, even though he knew differently. Emotions were a matter of the heart, and this delicate creature had managed to slip through the doors of his guarded heart, and he had allowed her stay. Now, in the wake of a miscarriage and knowing how distraught she had been, he felt that he must stay near her, even just to hold her for hours on end while she slept or cried or stared into empty space. He read some of his emails to her, always looking for a juicy case although most were facile. Sometimes she was silent for a long time, and he was not sure what to do with that silence, whether he should keep the conversation going by himself or be silent with her. He experimented with both options with unsatisfactory results.

Why had she said she did not think they were going to make it? Although he was not entirely certain where their relationship would ultimately lead, he did not see any reason for it to be ending. Maybe she was still upset about Anthea’s kiss. Maybe she did not like the time spent apart. Maybe she did not like the secrecy anymore. He did not know the answers to any of his questions, and he was not going to ask her either. Whereas his timing could be badly off, he knew enough about her not to ask questions that could lead to other issues that he did not want to deal with.

He had food brought in each day since he was rubbish at anything to do with food preparation and cooking, but she was not eating much, and most of the food was carried out to the rubbish bins. He could not help scouring the newspapers and internet for a new case. His emails were bursting with potential cases, most of which he solved with a simple reply. He wanted something really challenging, however, and those cases seemed to be getting harder to find. He even toyed with the idea of going on an MI6 assignment just to keep busy – and as long as it was not going to end in his certain demise.

As she was snuggled against him on the sofa one evening he said quietly, “Some day you’re going to make a wonderful mother.”

She said nothing. She had not spoken for hours.

“I can see a little Molly running around. She’ll have hair like yours, your eyes, your smile. “

She blinked slowly as if his words had put a vision in her head and she was processing it. “I’m thirsty.” She said quietly.

He immediately got up and poured her a glass of juice. She seemed to want a lot of juice since coming home. He figured her body was craving sugar for energy. Either that or the sugar was sapping her of energy. Regardless, he fetched whatever she desired, and he held the glass for her while she took a sip.

“Dark curls,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“She’ll have dark curls just like yours.”

He was not sure what to say to that. He was not actually thinking of having a child, and she was assuming that if there were another child he would still be the father. He attributed it all to her hormones still in flux from the miscarriage. Then again, why had he assumed that someday she would make a great mother – who then would be the father? He was not certain he wanted anyone else in his territory to perform that role with her. Definitely did not want a rival. But to plan a child was not a bridge he was prepared to cross, either. One had happened by accident, and he was fairly certain that he did not want one to happen on purpose. But could he deny her that fulfillment if that’s what she wanted? He felt the best course of action at the moment was to play along rather than contradict her on any level.

"But brown eyes,” he said. “Brown is dominant, blue recessive. Only a one in four chance of blue.” It sounded almost robotic when he said it, and he winced about that.

She rested her head in his lap. She was not exactly listening anyhow. He gently stroked her hair away from her face and added, “I am sorry for your loss, Molly.”

Her loss. She recognized that he was disconnected and distanced from the event. While it was true that she had not involved him in the decision to keep the child, it was also true that he was equally responsible for creating the child. There had been many nights when their desire for physical intimacy had been so intense that they could not stop the progression of events for protection. She was not able to take any form of birth control pill. They all had side effects that were terribly disagreeable to her just as she was sensitive to many different medications.

One week after the miscarriage, with only John and Mary at her side, Molly laid her premature son to rest in Hampstead Cemetery. Sherlock was not in attendance, at least not that any of them could see. He stood back in the shadow of a nearby mausoleum much in the same way he had stood back in the trees when John had come to his grave site to pay his respects. Perhaps John remembered Sherlock saying he had been there and had heard John’s speech, because he suddenly looked up and around. He sensed Sherlock’s presence but did not see him. “He’s here,” he barely whispered to Mary.

“I know,” she said.

Molly bent down and placed a small bouquet of baby’s breath flowers on the grave marker. The grave marker read only:

 

HOOPER

 SON

MISCARRIED

 

Sherlock did not move out of the shadows until John, Mary and Molly had driven away from the cemetery, and then he walked over to the marker and looked down at it, but he did not linger. He turned up his collar and walked away.

A few days later the marker was replaced and the original marker was sent to his private storage unit he kept just outside of Hertford. The new marker read:

 

HOLMES

SON

MISCARRIED

 

No one was present when the new marker was laid in the ground in the cemetery. Eventually he would visit again, but for now it was taken care of with great anonymity.


	12. Chapter 12

John pushed his sleeping baby in a pram through the local park while Sherlock walked beside him and held two freshly brewed cups of coffee from the local coffee establishment. They came to a bench that overlooked playground equipment not less than twenty feet away, and they both sat down. The playground was empty due to the storm clouds that rumbled overhead. Sherlock handed John his coffee, and John thanked him then took a sip. They sat in silence together for several moments, but then John cleared his throat. Sherlock knew precisely what that throat clearing meant – that John was about to say something awkward, and he braced himself. He was expecting a lecture on drug use.

“So Sherlock, remember how you knew I shot the cabbie all those years ago? I tried to deny it, but you saw right through me.”

“Remarkable shot.” Sherlock nodded.

“And you know how you exposed the whole thing about Mary to me at Leinster Gardens because as my best friend you wanted me to know the truth?”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. He was not certain where John’s line of questions was leading. “Yes…?”

John cleared his throat again, but he just could not get the words out. He and Sherlock did not make eye contact. “You and Molly together. Mary and I know, and that’s really all I’m going to say about it, but if there’s anything you want to talk about, any advice you need, I just want you to know you can talk to me.” He cleared his throat again.

Sherlock took a deep breath. He had not expected that, and he was, quite frankly, a little horrified by it. He was stunned into silence as he tried to process this startling revelation.

“Your secret is safe with us,” John added. “In case you’re worried.”

Sherlock turned to look at John. He said carefully, “ _You_ figured it out.”

“Well, not me, actually. Mary. “

Sherlock sighed a little with relief, and John knew that sigh: Sherlock had just undercut his intelligence, something that once happened frequently but now rarely. It did not bother John, however. He had long grown accustomed to it.

“I think maybe she’s suspected for a long time that there was possibly something.”

“There wasn't. For a long time.”

“Sherlock, your private life is your private life. Your business. But you once made a vow that you would always be there for Mary and I and the baby, and I’m here to say right now that that vow goes two ways. Mary and I will always be there for you too.”

“Two? Molly and I?”

“I mean also. Of course if Molly’s in the picture too. We’re there for the both of you. For whomever you choose. Although maybe next time you could give us a little warning before you nearly make us godparents?” John had meant it with a little brevity, but he immediately regretted his words when he saw the pain in Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t know why I said it like that. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock held his hand up and motioned John quiet. He then very carefully chose his words although it took him several moments to start. “I can’t always be there to protect her. Every day I worry. I don’t want her under guard but it would be safer if I weren’t with her, if I broke it off.”

“Yes, but cowardly too, and you’re not a coward.”

“I’m not breaking it off, John.”

“So, you’re in love with her, then?”

Sherlock blinked rapidly several times. He was not sure how to form his words. Love was not a word he said regarding relationships. It was not a word he used for much of anything except an exciting case, but even then he’d not used the word for a long time. Love. Love. In love. He was not even certain what in love meant. John saw his struggle to form the words. He’d seen such struggles before when Sherlock’s mind had been overloaded with attempting to grasp a word or emotion.

“Sherlock, do you need me to break it down for you?” John asked.

“I need you to stop talking,” Sherlock said. There was a long moment of pained silence and John waited again. Finally Sherlock said, “She loves me, as if there is something to love. She understands me, though I don’t know how. She has waited for me, despite my having put her off so many times. She hears my heart, small though it is. So when you ask me if I am in love with her, I have to say no, at least not by the standards she has set. I don’t feel things the way she does because there’s something wrong with me. We’ve always known that. I don’t nurture those emotions, but I can’t imagine going back either.”

John smiled a little. “One of the first things Lestrade ever said to me was that you were a great man and that if we were very lucky, someday you might even be a good one. It’s not that your heart is too small, Sherlock. It’s that you’re experiencing growing pains. It’s very possible your heart is actually bursting.” John clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Don’t expect a dinner invitation anytime soon,” Sherlock said dryly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, although Mary wants to have you both for dinner.”

“Perhaps we can get through the Moriarty case first,” Sherlock insisted.

A child’s pink striped ball rolled up then to Sherlock’s feet, and the child, a very young girl with long, wavy, dark hair waited several feet away for him to return it to her. The girl could have been the spitting image of a perfect DNA merger between Sherlock and Molly. The girl smiled sweetly to him and held out her hands to receive the ball. Sherlock picked up the ball and gently tossed it to her. The child immediately took it and ran off to play, and Sherlock watched her until she disappeared from view.

“Extraordinary.” He said in awe.

“What’s extraordinary?” John asked.

Sherlock realized he’d been staring, and he shook his head to clear it. “That little girl. Did you see her?”

“What little girl? There’s not a soul around.” John said. “Speaking of which, I should be heading back. Looks like it’s about to rain.”

“Will you be coming by later?” Sherlock asked.

“Have you got something new?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “We can look at the timeline again.”

John groaned and got up then. “Not that bloody timeline again.”

“The answer is there. It has to be.”

“No, it doesn’t. You’ve been obsessing over it for weeks, and it’s not there. In fact, your obsession with it is probably blocking you from seeing the real answer.”

Sherlock was slightly affronted. “The timeline holds the answer.”

“Fine. Then go obsess on it without me.” John said, and he began to push the pram down the park path away from Sherlock.

Sherlock remained seated on the bench as a little thunder rumbled through the skies. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a compact umbrella and opened it. A few raindrops began to dot the ground, but they began falling more rapidly very quickly. He sat in the downpour for a few minutes, then got up and began to walk to the main street. He hailed a taxi for home.

When he arrived home, he was surprised to find Mary at his flat. “Mrs. Hudson let me in.” she said a bit nervously. “John doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Is something wrong? Tell me what’s wrong.” He said. “Mary, sit down and tell me.”

“I prefer to stand, if that’s all right.” She said.

“Are you in trouble?” he asked. A quick scan of her clothing, her eyes, her hair, everything about her did not speak of personal trouble, especially not from her past life. No, this was a meeting of a personal matter. “Is it John?”

“No, Sherlock. It’s you.” She said. Her heart was beating as hard as if she’d just run up a dozen flights of stairs.

“Me?” That was the last thing he expected.

“Sherlock, from the first time I met you and you were such an arse to John in the restaurant, just coming back into John’s life like that… I liked you. I cared about you. I even fell in love with you a bit.” She winced. “This is not coming out right.”

“What is it you want to say, Mary?” he was very confused.

“I love you, Sherlock. Not in the same way as I love John, of course. I love you as a very good friend, or as a sister. You’re family to me. And family looks after each other, especially when one family member is hurting.”

And then he knew. He knew why she was actually there. “No, Mary, don’t say it.”

But she had come there to say it and she was determined to. “Sherlock, you have a problem with drugs, and you need help. You know you do.”

He held up his hand to stop her. “No, no I’m fine. I’m so sorry about that night. It will not happen again, but I am fine. I do not need an intervention.”

“I’m only one person, Sherlock, and I’ve come to you as your friend.” She took his hand, and he looked down at their hands.

He was not prepared for this conversation. It was hitting him broadside, and he did not like it. Whereas he could yell and threaten Mycroft with bodily harm for interfering in his private life, he could never do that with Mary despite what he’d been through with her. She had shot him out of fear and desperation when he came in on her about to kill Magnussen, and his road to recovery had been about six months. At his first opportunity, he had killed Magnusses to save her from his blackmailing which also saved John. However, the cost of saving her continued to haunt him in the Moriarty case. He was still paying the price because someone knew that he had killed Magnussen and was using that information to make him dance after an answer.

He hung his head partly in defeat. Mary took Sherlock’s face in her hands. “Promise me. Sherlock, look at me and promise me.” She said sternly, and he met her gaze.

“Mary, I—“

“No excuses,” she said. “No wavering. You start going to meetings, and you get some help, because this just can’t keep going on, and you know it. I know you don’t use drugs very often, but the fact that you turn to them in crisis is unacceptable. You need to learn to handle your pain and your emotions and your life without drugs. So look at me and promise you will get help.”

“Therapy has never worked in the past.”

“I’m talking about rehab, Sherlock. “

“I don’t have that kind of problem.” He insisted.

“Sherlock, look at me. Do you know how much John and I love and adore you? Do you understand in your heart that you have people in your life who think the world of you and can’t imagine a day without you in their lives? You are loved, my friend. Loved. You need to face your fears of being vulnerable and having weaknesses. Don’t let this thing keep coming back. You are so much more than it.”

“I’ll be tossed out the first day.” He said grimly. “You know how I am.”

“I know that you have a strong character and that you can overcome this once and for all, but don’t do it for me or for John or Molly. You have to do it for yourself. You know that.”

“I know.” He said. “I know.” That brought tears to his eyes, because it scared him a little, and he also suddenly felt a bit like a failure for not being able to control it on his own. He finally nodded, “All right.”

Mary embraced him tightly, kissed him on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “It’s okay for your heart to be awake and alive and vibrant. And don’t worry about Molly. John and I will look after her.”

“How did I give us away?” he asked quietly.

She smiled sweetly to him. “You made her your safety, your hiding place. Only love can do that. But mostly it was women’s intuition about such things.”

“Damn.” He muttered. “That one will always outwit me.”

He did not want to go to a rehab center that Mycroft had chosen simply for the fact that Mycroft would have chosen it and that it would have given him just a little power play over Sherlock. Instead he allowed John to find him a 30-day residential program. He pulled himself away from all his casework and even put the Moriarty casework on hold, and he dutifully checked himself into the program with a steely determination not to get himself kicked out immediately. He would do his best to filter and censor his thoughts before speaking, and he would endeavor to listen without lapsing into boredom and instant deductions of everything he saw.

Although Sherlock could have been in the “best” facility, even he know that true rehabilitation from drugs did not lie in the facility but within himself, but even as he checked into the facility and watched the doors shut behind him, he was not certain that he was truly willing to do the work they would ask of him or if boredom would overtake him within moments. A little boredom was manageable, but a month of it was terrifying, and he was certain that boredom would feature heavily on the menu.

John informed Mycroft that Sherlock was in rehab, and Mycroft in turn quietly informed his parents. Mycroft held out little hope that Sherlock would stay in the program, nor were his parents very hopeful that it would be beneficial. Still, it was Sherlock’s choice and there was a little hope in that. Molly was less aware of Sherlock’s past drug use, but John informed her of what he knew and especially of the little bender the night of Molly’s miscarriage. Molly had suspected during his long recovery after being shot nearly a year before that he might have addiction issues because he had stayed on morphine for pain longer than any of them thought was necessary, but it had not been confirmed to her until the day she tested his urine and it came back positive. She had slapped him three times and quite hard too. She had let him know right then that she would not tolerate it. John assured her that Sherlock was not a habitual user but that the pull would always be there, and then it was up to Molly to decide if she felt she could handle that part of her relationship with Sherlock or if she should cut him loose and let him find his own path. What she ultimately decided was to stand by him and take it day by day, but she also assured John that if she saws signs of his addiction, that she would let him know immediately—if she did not strangle Sherlock first.

Sherlock quietly disappeared from public view for thirty days of residential treatment, and Molly began to count the days. The relapse rate after treatment was high regardless. Maybe he would be one of the lucky ones to stay clean for the rest of his life. Even though she knew that pragmatically it was not true, she believed nonetheless that her love for him would keep him on a path of that did not veer into drugs.

On the day he left the facility, there was no one to meet him. He had said he would take a taxi back to Baker Street where he could decompress and be among the solitude of his things. Everyone knew that when he was ready to make contact that he would although he did send everyone the text, HOME.

He sat down and felt the worn leather of the arms of his chair. The flat seemed too quiet, even quieter than when he realized John was not coming back to the flat after his two-year absence. Alone did not protect him anymore. Now it wounded him. He had moved John’s chair into storage after John’s wedding but then had moved it back out after being shot by Mary. He had thought there was a possibility that John might abandon his marriage and move back in, but clearly that had not happened. Nevertheless, he had not moved the chair into storage again. Somehow it just belonged there

The one thing he did not want to do was to talk about his experience in rehab. Maybe once, but not repeat it endlessly for his friends who had not heard and would certainly be wondering if it “worked” and how did he feel about it. He hoped he would not talk about it at all, but he knew that it would come up, probably with Molly and Mary. He did not want to talk about with John, and he did not think John would ask him. Some things between men were just not discussed, even best friends.

He certainly would never discuss it with Mycroft. That would only give Mycroft more fodder to use against him, but when his phone rang and he saw that it was his brother, he was compelled to answer despite not wanting to.

“Sherlock, I trust your month-long sabbatical has reinvigorated your dedication to this Moriarty business. When might we expect you back on the case?”

“I was never off the case.” Sherlock said simply. “No, I had plenty of time to think about the case, Mycroft. Plenty of time to plan my next course of action.”

“And what might that be?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m going to need some information, and you’re going to get it for me. I think there’s someone inside of MI6 who is not what they appear to be.”

Mycroft went uncharacteristically silent. There was a long moment of silence. Finally he said, “Tell me what you need.”

Sherlock replied simply, “Unrestricted access.”

Unrestricted access meant using Mycroft’s unrestricted access to all the personnel files of everyone currently in the British government, secret service and even Scotland Yard. He would start there and narrow his way down, eliminating suspects as quickly as possible. Although the balance of probability favored that he was looking for a male, he did not discount a female suspect. He was first and foremost, however, looking for the Moriarty impostor, and that immediately eliminated all women. Next he was looking for a Caucasian. He eliminated anyone over 6’ and under 5.5’ tall. He eliminated certain hair colors. He eliminated anyone under age 33 and over age 45. He eliminated anyone over 200 lbs and under 125 lbs. He eliminated physical handicaps. He checked his numbers. He still had over three-thousand potential suspects, and at this point he became wary of what search criteria to enter, but he was determined not to have to read more than three-thousand files.

With his remaining three thousand potential suspects, Sherlock asked the computer to do face recognition matches with the Moriarty impostor. This would take a while, even on the fastest computers.

He called up Lestrade. “Any progress on finding out how it was known I was in that room looking at those six bodies?”

“No, everyone checks out clean.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence.”

“I’m not saying it was, Sherlock. I’m just saying it all checks out here. In fact, the CCTV wasn’t even turned on in the conference room. I’m afraid it’s another dead end.”

“I expected you to say that.” He said somewhat grimly.

His computer beeped, and he quickly returned to it. The first potential match was found, and the search automatically paused for confirmation and further instruction. Sherlock looked carefully at the male face, but he quickly dismissed it since the man was of Middle Eastern descent, and he was looking for a Caucasian male even though the man was light-skinned. He instructed the computer to save the man’s profile, however, but to continue the search. Once all the searches were complete he would go through them more carefully.

The computer found three potential matches, and Sherlock began to study them intensely. There was only one, however, that truly caught his attention: MI6 special agent Yosi Trengleman. Except that Trengleman was a blue-eyed blond.

Sherlock picked up his phone and dialed. “Anderson? I need your help.”

Phillip Anderson arrived at 221B Baker Street within the hour. He had not seen Sherlock for nearly a year, not since the day that Sherlock had been found by John in the drug den. Since he had been dismissed from the police force after fraudulent accusations made against Sherlock’s integrity, he had spent two years theorizing Sherlock had not died in the fall from Bart’s roof. He even harbored the belief that there might be something between Sherlock and Molly because she and only she could have helped him to survive the fall and do the cover-up in the morgue. He was even more certain of it after Sherlock’s taped interview about how he survived the fall, even if Anderson did not quite believe all the facts.

Anderson and Sherlock had had few interactions since that interview, but the one notable one was when Mycroft had asked him to search Sherlock’s flat for drugs after John had pulled Sherlock from the drug den. His relationship with Sherlock had always been slightly prickly at best although he knew he’d made a terrible error in judgment about Sherlock and was not sure he’d ever been forgiven or even would be forgiven.

Anderson arrived with a young woman at his side who only went by the name Lotta. She was slightly steampunk in style, her spiked hair a flagrant shade of purple, and body piercings in places Sherlock could see and guess the rest. “No.” Sherlock said immediately.

“Trust me, Sherlock. She can Photoshop your mother’s head onto a cat and you’d think it was real.”

Lotta looked Sherlock up and down. “You send all your clothes to the cleaners and you only keep a white shirt for weddings, which you’ve probably only worn once. Otherwise black or maybe dark plum are your signature colors. Do you keep all your shirts a size too small to make it look like you’re putting on weight or to make your sex appeal burst at the buttons? Or maybe you’re just too vain to admit you need a size larger.”

She and Sherlock stared each other down for a moment. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s get started then.”

Lotta was an expert in Photoshop and a highly skilled artist and was remarkably quick at it as well. She soon had a picture of Yosi Trenglman doctored with dark hair and dark eyes, and the result was a startlingly similar image to Moriarty. Even Anderson gasped, but Sherlock motioned him quiet. He quickly pulled out his wallet and paid her handsomely for the work that took her less than an hour. As soon as she had left the flat, Sherlock printed out the image.

“That’s Moriarty.” Anderson said. “But that’s not possible. I verified his death myself. Saw the body laid out. Horrific brain damage, of course. Can’t survive that kind of wound.”

“It’s not Moriarty,” Sherlock said, “but he wants us to think he is.” He opened his wallet and started to pay Anderson, but Anderson held up his hands.

“I could never take anything from you, Sherlock. Not after what happened.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Really, Anderson. You need to get past that. I don’t blame you and Donovan for thinking the way you did. By the way, whatever happened to Sally? Haven’t seen her around Scotland Yard in the last several months.”

“She was transferred to another division up in the Lake District. Not too much going on up there.”

“Miss her?”

“That was a long time ago, Sherlock. It sort of all ended when we thought you were dead.”

“Sorry to be the killjoy of your little tryst.”

“It never would have worked anyhow.”

“No.” Sherlock said affirmatively. He again tried to offer Anderson payment for his services, but again Anderson declined. He put his money away and offered his hand. Anderson hesitated, then gripped Sherlock’s hand firmly. Sherlock smiled slightly and nodded. It was as close to saying “I forgive you” as he would get, and Anderson understood that immediately.

***

Sherlock stared at the picture of Yosi Trenglman. Special agent. Former army officer, tour of duty in Iraq. Wounded in action. Rhodes scholar. Masters in Political Science from Cambridge. Fluent in seven languages. The information on Trenglman filtered rapidly through his brain. He seemed to have an impeccable record.

Sherlock later slid the doctored photo across Mycroft’s desk. “Recognize this man?”

Mycroft flinched almost imperceptibly, but Sherlock caught it and noted it. “Looks a lot like Moriarty but it isn’t of course.”

“Of course not.”

“Why do you say it like that?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock slid the real photo across the table. “Yosi Trenglman. He’s one of yours. Had one of my people doctor the picture a bit when he matched the facial recognition profile in the software. This is the same man who was at Breitling. Even a handwriting analysis matches the signature at Breitling.”

Mycroft picked up both pictures and looked at them, then set them back down. “Except for one thing. Yosi Trenglman has been undercover in Eastern Europe for the past several months.”

“You’re certain about that?”

“Of course I’m certain about that. We get an automatic update from his microchip every five minutes. We know exactly where he is.”

“Your satellite is working again?” Sherlock startled a bit at the news.

“We’re in the process of transitioning our agents to another satellite. He has already been moved over.” Mycroft rubbed his eyes and took a moment before he spoke. “Sherlock, I think there’s a very good chance you will not solve this case. You’ve already lost complete perspective on it, and it may simply be a matter of damage control at this point.”

“Damage control? I’m closer to solving this than I ever have been. What if he removed his chip?” Sherlock said cautiously. “Stuck it to a stray dog or something, and he’s here instead reviving Moriarty’s old network.”

Mycroft sighed wearily. “No. He sends regular reports.”

“Reports can be faked.”

“Sherlock, enough!” Mycroft said sternly. “Is some doctored picture of an agent supposed to convince me of some type of espionage inside of MI6? I can have dozens of agents pictures doctored with same results. I deserve better than that from you.”

“That’s our fake Moriarty!”

Mycroft ripped the images into several pieces and dropped them into the trash. “You don’t have anything. Again. Don’t be stupid! Whatever it is that is distracting you from this case I suggest you figure it out and get rid of it.”

“I’m not distracted.”

“You’ve been distracted for months. You haven’t come up with a solid lead since this all started. Very unlike you. Like I said: distracted. Fix your problem.”

Sherlock tensed. He was not certain if Mycroft was making a veiled reference to Molly. Did he know? If he did know, how much did he know? Sherlock was not willing to acknowledge his comment on a “problem.”

Mycroft’s tone softened slightly. “Mummy asks about you. You don’t return her calls. We both know why. Still, she’s worried about you. You have to face her and Daddy sometime, you know.”

“I know.” Sherlock said. “When I’m ready.”

“Parents can be quite forgiving of their recalcitrant offspring, but don’t make them wait too much longer, Sherlock. What’s it been? Almost six months?”

“When I’m ready.” Sherlock reiterated.

Mycroft stood up and straightened his jacket. “I’ll walk you out.”

It was unusual for Mycroft to ever walk out with Sherlock, and Sherlock sensed there was more to this escort out of Mycroft’s office that was being let on.

“I know the way.”

“Oh I insist, brother mine.” Mycroft said tersely, and he and Sherlock walked silently out of the building.

As Sherlock was getting into the waiting Taxi, Mycroft leaned in and said very quietly. “Find your proof and bring it only to me, do you understand? No one else.”

He shut the taxi door, and the taxi began to drive away. In the back seat of the taxi, Sherlock processed Mycroft’s words and suddenly turned and looked out the back window at his brother. Mycroft, however, had already turned away and was heading back into the building. Sherlock settled back in the seat, and his eyes grew wide. He was onto something, but Mycroft could not say it within the confines of the building. No, there was something going on, something Sherlock was very close to. But why was Mycroft helping him suddenly? And why was Mycroft unable to acknowledge that Sherlock was right about the photograph?

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he smiled just slightly. For the first time in many months, he felt more certain than ever that the case could be solved after all.

He dialed Mycroft. “Don’t move my chip to the new satellite. I want the killer to find me.”

AWAKE THE EAGLE. SH


	13. Chapter 13

YOSI TRENGLMAN

Sherlock stared at the name for several moments, then looked up the first name. YOSI. Hebrew and Arabic form of YOSEF, and derivative of English, French and German JOSEPH. Also a Japanese first name. He immediately discounted the Japanese as Trenglman was not Asian. His profile listed him as born in Southampton to parents ELI and HADESS TRENGLMAN. Eli was a jeweler, his mother an English Literature teacher at the university level. No siblings. Father died of lung cancer in 1994. Mother died of brain aneurysm in 1995. No other relatives in Britain. Unmarried, no children. Sherlock’s intuition immediately intensified. Yosi’s parents were both passed away by the time he entered university. Rhodes scholar yes, but that was later. Was he always a brilliant student? Sherlock was always suspicious when there were gaps in the ability to trace a past. Somehow that both parents were passed away, he had no siblings and no relatives in the country was a little too convenient. It reminded him of what Mary had once said, “Orphan’s lot. Friends, that’s all I have.” But did Trenglman even have friends?

TRENGLMAN

Trenglman. Unusual spelling. Seemed like it could have used another vowel. He looked that up too and the closest he could find was an H. L. Trengelman of the essay, “An algebraic approach to linear and nonlinear control.” If Sherlock were speaking to his mother, he would ask her if she’d heard of it, but as he was not in communication with her, he could not. It did not matter, however, as the spelling was different.

If Trenglman were as dangerous as Sherlock suspected, he knew he would only have once chance to bait him into a confrontation, and it was a confrontation that could very well lead to Sherlock’s own death because Sherlock was at a distinct disadvantage. Knowing who a killer was did not tell him where the killer was. Sherlock would have to specifically make himself the bait.

And now the hard, cold choice had to be made. The choice to separate sentiment from the work that had to be done. It was a choice he dreaded, but it was a choice that required his absolute commitment to solving the case. Should he tell Molly that he could killed at any moment and simply cause her worry, or should he say nothing? Would she ever understand if he chose not to tell her and he were actually killed? She had been the one he had trusted to help with a solution in fabricating his death so many years before, but they had progressed beyond a friendship, and he felt as if he owed her at least a warning. And yet, he ultimately decided to say nothing. If he was going to be killed while on a case, it was better she learned afterwards. He also decided that he could not see her again until the matter of catching the killer was resolved. He could not put her in any more danger than he already had, especially since he would keep the chip with him at all times now. Texting would be all the communication they would have and it would remain coded. He would not even visit Barts for any reason until the matter was resolved. If it took days or months, he would not visit her. This lonely decision was what he knew any MI6 agent in a private relationship dealt with, and although he was not on an MI6 mission, he knew he had to treat it as if he were, especially since it possibly involved a rogue government agent. If it were possible, he would tuck the memory of her into his mind palace and lock the door. If it were possible. She could not be a distraction.

And yet. There were things undone and things unsaid. Sherlock gave John a key along with a business envelope marked Molly Hooper. “My safety deposit box at the Bank of England. You’re the executor of my will. And if I should die, John, please make certain Molly receives this. Tell her… tell her …” he stumbled over his own words.

“Tell her yourself when we catch this guy, and we will catch him.” John said.

“We don’t know that. I could walk out of 221B Baker Street and be dead before I closed the door. He’s out there, and he’s hunting me. It’s a new game, John, and one I’m not entirely confident I can win. There’s a whiff of death in the air and I can’t escape it.”

“How do you know he’ll come for you?”

“Because he’s been baiting me while he’s been killing MI6 agents and various criminals wanted by Interpol.”

“But if he was really targeting you to kill you, Sherlock, it’s not exactly like you’re hard to find. You’re in the press almost every day. Your fan clubs practically tweet your every movement. Your name nearly crashed Tumblr when Janine sold those sexual exploit stories to the news . You’re a celebrity.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed deeply with disdain. “The price of being an expert.”

“What I’m saying is, why hasn’t he blown your head apart like a watermelon already? You’re an easy enough target.”

Sherlock scowled at John. “Always so colorful.”

“You know what I mean. Are you certain this Trenglman person pretending to be Moriarty is doing the other killings?” John asked.

“Oh, I think there’s a very elaborate game going on, and he’s the tip of the iceberg, but if we can catch him, the entire thing will unravel. He is our impostor Moriarty, John. I know it.”

“Sherlock,” John warned quite sternly, ‘if you’re wrong about Trenglman, your career as a detective, private or otherwise, is ruined. MI6 will make certain of that. You can’t just piss on one of their agents without good cause. You know that, don’t you?”

Sherlock took note of the genuine concern in John’s eyes. “Mycroft isn’t the only one with connections in Eastern Europe. Trenglman’s chip is there, but he isn’t.”

“How do you know for certain?”

“Because if I were in MI6 and needed to disappear, that’s what I’d do.”

“So you don’t know one hundred percent.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “A minor technicality.” John swore under his breath, and Sherlock added, “I have people on the ground searching for him, John. I’m telling you, he isn’t there. There’s just one thing I don’t yet understand.”

“What’s that?”

“Why he would pose as Moriarty. That’s the part that has never made sense. Why not someone fresh and new and interesting? Why would Trenglman be interested in taunting me? I don’t know the man. I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Certainly didn’t run into him that I know of when I was undercover for two years. I probably made some new enemies, of course.”

“Well in the meantime I don’t like you being someone’s target practice.”

“John, he doesn’t need my chip’s signature to track me. As you pointed out he just has to read the paper. My phone number and address are on the website. No, he’s trying to be clever, trying to see if I can find him.”

“I remind you that you never found Moriarty. He found you, and that’s what I’m afraid will happen again, and I don’t care to be strapped to another bomb or see you two play it out on Bart’s roof again. I’m not playing that game again with you or him. I grieved for you once, Sherlock. Don’t make me live through that again or I might just kill you myself. Despite what you think, you are not indestructible.”

There was a level of anger in John’s voice, and it was something Sherlock had come to recognize as carrying personal weight. He had once been dismissive of John’s caring of anything, but he was less so now, especially since Mary had come into their lives, even more so that John considered Sherlock his best friend. It was a hallowed ground Sherlock had never trodden before, and he was still unsure of his footing because he was not certain if he had ever been a best friend in return. Even though he was working out the details in his mind at an electrifying pace, he had to pause and acknowledge John’s concern.

“What would you have me do, John?”

“At least wear some protection.”

Lestrade arrived within a couple of hours with a bullet-proof vest, and Sherlock submitted himself to being strapped in although he was not entirely comfortable with the idea or the weight of it.

“Sherlock Holmes in a bullet proof vest.” Sherlock murmured. “Hardly inspires confidence.”

“It’s something at least,” Lestrade said as he pulled the straps tight.

“He’ll no doubt be aiming for my head. It’s the most effective target.” Sherlock said. “But I absolutely draw the line at a combat helmet.”

“In case he goes for the heart, this will keep you somewhat safe. You’ll still feel the impact and will likely be knocked down. Probably a little bruised but alive. I still don’t understand how the satellite will be able to read your signal through this, however.” Lestrade tightened the last strap.

Sherlock let his arms down and took a deep breath. “Not to worry, it’s all under control. Now go home both of you. I need to think this through and you’re putting me off.”

“Sherlock…” John started to protest.

“John, I am not your priority. Go home to Mary and my little namesake. Keep them safe. I’ll be fine.” He gave John a little smile and reassuring nod.

“All right, but call me if you need anything.” John said.

John hesitated for a moment but then left and Lestrade said quietly, “Look, Sherlock, I’d leave you my gun if I could but I know you’re not allowed to be in possession of a gun. I’m tempted to leave it anyhow. I don’t like the idea of you being so unprotected. If you need any backup at all, you let me know immediately, all right? I’ll keep a couple of my guys on standby until this thing is over. Do you want me to post security for you?”

“As I told John, I’ll be fine,” Sherlock insisted. “I know how to find you.”

In truth, Sherlock did need to think without either of them in the flat, but as soon as Lestrade left, he quickly unbuckled the bullet-proof vest and breathed a huge sigh of liberation from the loss of weight. In all his years of detective work, even when he was undercover for two years dismantling Moriarty’s network, he had never worn that type of protection, and he was not about to start.

YOSI TRENGLMAN

Sherlock closed his eyes and steepled his hands below his chin. What was he missing in this equation? He did not breathe for nearly two minutes, but then he gasped, and his eyes popped open. He shook his head and rolled his eyes. How could he have not seen it before? “Stupid! Stupid!” he muttered to himself. He quickly pulled out a piece of paper and wrote:

YOSI TRENGLMAN = ANTON GRIMSLEY

It was an anagram. Unoriginal and boring, he thought. Not even terribly clever. A simple anagram. Not only was Trenglman the Moriarty impostor, he was an impostor within MI6. He had started his murderous spree in childhood and now as an MI6 agent could continue his psychopathic vendetta at will.

Sherlock had to work it out. It was the one thing in his mind, but he needed to visualize it to be certain. He had to rebuild his timeline, but this time he would leave Moriarty out of it because he needed to build Grimsley’s timeline. He had taken the original timeline back far enough, but he had moved it forward in the wrong direction which he berated himself for. The timelines for young Grimsley and Moriarty needed to be laid out in parallel. He found it interesting that both were already committing murders in their early teens, but Moriarty was far cleverer. Moriarty’s murder of young Carl Powers was not unraveled for nearly 20 years, and it was only unraveled because Moriarty made a game of it. Grimsley, however, was just brutal.

There were problems with the case, however, that continued to escape him. He did not understand why Trenglman would go to the trouble of posing as Moriarty to taunt Sherlock just as Sherlock was being sent on a mission out of the country. Why did Trenglman use the word “murderer” on the paper found in the coffin. How did he know about Magnussen? If Trenglman knew, who else could know? That he had taunted Sherlock with “Get Sherlock” was simply a copycat move, and anyone could have done it since the photographs of Moriarty breaking into the case containing the crown jewels had the words “get Sherlock” on the case. These photographs were widely published in the newspapers.

And even more confusing, however, was if Trenglman had borne a grudge against Sherlock since youth. Sherlock had never known an Anton Grimsley. He had hardly interacted with other children and youths. He kept to himself almost entirely, absorbed in books and science projects. He avoided his own peers at that age. They did not understand his intellect and OCD behaviors. Instead he was bullied and taunted, and it had caused him to retreat further into isolation. A few labeled him “gay” for no other reason than that he was different and they deemed it the epitome of an insult at that age. Transferring schools four times in his teen years did not solve that problem but only intensified his need for isolation.

It was during those years that Sherlock had begun to play the violin and to learn classical dance. He took to the violin immediately although he was considered a late starter. However, he almost instantly understood music theory because it had precise rules of composition, and he liked and needed the strict confines of structure. He did not care for the modern “dance” that happened at the school parties he refused to attend, but with classical dance there was a mathematical precision and form to it, and he could understand that. He had no desire to become a professional dancer, but being in classical dance with other boys his age who did not taunt him for this different choice was a slight comfort. He would not, however, perform in any recitals in either dance or music. He never knew who would be in attendance and possibly make his life more hellish in school. Some things were better kept private. In fact, his entire life, including sexual preference, was better kept quiet. It was enough that he received ridicule from Mycroft.

He had no proof that Grimsley had skinned the dog alive, but he suspected it as a symptom of early pathological behaviors. Sherlock had tried to tie the incident to the young Moriarty, but he realized he was only doing that based on Moriarty’s phone conversation at the swimming pool a few years earlier when he had tried to destroy John with a bomb. In truth, however, Sherlock preferred not to think about the incident at all. There were some rooms in his mind palace that held unpleasant childhood memories, and he kept those rooms locked. He did not even like to look at the doors. The skinned dog incident was one of those doors. Now, however, he walked down the long corridor in his mind palace to the locked door. Was there a clue behind the door that he had forgotten? Even as he put his hand on the door knob, he could already hear himself as a young child screaming from the other side, and he recoiled from the door. He took a deep breath to calm himself, then reached for the door and opened it. The screaming assaulted his ears as he found himself back in the living room of his parents’ house from when he was twelve years old.

Rather than tell young Sherlock that his dog, Redbeard, had had to be put down due to health issues, his parents had simply told him that Redbeard had run away. Despite his relentless searching, Sherlock could not find the dog, and within a couple of months, the news story of the skinned Irish Setter hit the headlines. He had been so fearful that the skinned dog had been Redbeard. Despite his parents’ continued attempts to assure him that the dog was not Redbeard, he convinced himself that his parents were lying to him about it and that had induced a horrific meltdown, and the memory of the meltdown was what he had kept locked behind the door in his mind palace.

The meltdown had started with crying, then breaking things. Then the screaming. His mother had to ring his father to come home from work immediately, and by the time his father arrived twenty minutes later, Sherlock had completely trashed his room, broken a window and had started to break things in the living room. His mother had tried to stop him, but he had fought her, and she knew that he would injure her if she tried to continue. His father was able to strong-arm him but not before Sherlock had managed to punch him in the face resulting in what would later become a black eye. He held his son for several hours while Sherlock screamed and tantrumed and cursed them with every vile word and thought he could until he had no voice or strength left. They told him the truth, but he accused them of lying. His mother even brought down a sealed urn from the attic with Redbeard’s ashes, but Sherlock was beyond reason then and still accused them of lying.

When young Sherlock’s strength had finally failed, he had cried himself into nearly catatonic stupor, and his father had carried his limp son up to bed and lain next to him throughout the night. He had kept his son tucked up under his arm all night as the boy slept. He had gently rubbed his son’s chest as if he could rub away the pain in the young heart.

Sherlock shut the door to the room in his mind palace and walked away. Immediately the door was nailed shut, then reinforced with a bank-vault type of door. The screaming faded into silence. He opened his eyes and steadied himself before sitting down.

His parents had temporarily pulled him from school after that incident and taken him to various doctors for a range of tests, including an EEG. They had briefly allowed him to be put on medication to control his moods, but the medication took all life out of his eyes and he was barely functioning, and within a week his mother pulled him off all medications. The EEG did not show any abnormalities, and x-rays of his skull did not reveal any tumors that might have caused his emotions to short-circuit that day.

Sherlock wondered if his pulling the trigger on Magnussen had simply been an adult manifestation of an autistic meltdown, but yet he knew that he had willfully shot him with the intent to kill him. He had not premeditated to kill him when he had gone to Appledore, but he’d asked John to bring a gun in case they encountered any trouble with Magnussen’s armed staff. It was supposed to be a simple exchange of information: Mycroft’s government laptop for the records of Mary Morstan, and then he would frame Magnussen with the government information. Except there were no actual files. Had Sherlock been so arrogant regarding his own mind palace to completely dismiss the fact that someone else might have a mind palace and an even bigger and better way of filing information? He had thought his own mind palace made him special. Now, however, he realized it was a unique talent but not necessarily a rare one. How many others used that information storage technique? There was basic information on the internet for how to start a storage room in the mind. No, he would never again make the mistake of assuming a highly intelligent person did not potentially have that ability, especially when it came to dealing with psychopaths. What he assumed now was that Trenglman just might have that talent also.

Yet still Sherlock felt no remorse over murdering Magnussen. While he knew he would be justifiably enraged were anyone to murder his brother or his parents, he did not empathize with that rage with Magnussen. He blocked Magnussen’s family and relatives from his mind. To him Magnussen was a solo entity, much like Moriarty. But while Moriarty had been like a spider, Magnussen was like a slave trader and the trading of human secrets and lives had made him a far worse creature than a spider.

Did his murdering of Magnussen put him on a psychopathic par with young Anton Grismley? Perhaps Grimsley had felt justified in killing his foster parents. Perhaps there were extenuating circumstances not covered in the press. Was he abused? Did he fear for his life? Or had he simply been a psychopath who had grown up and changed identities into Yosi Trenglman? Sherlock favored the latter, but he wondered how far he himself was from that same darkness of soul. He had never apologized to his parents for his meltdowns or the vileness he had spewed at them in fits of rage. Now so much time had passed that he did not know if he should even open those old wounds anymore. If they had been hurt by his outbursts, they had never let on, and surely as parents they had long forgiven him, but he did regret that he had caused them so much grief in those early years. Perhaps one day when he was free of this Trenglman case, he would make a point of making amends and clearing his conscience.

He realized that he would not have encountered Anton Grimsley during those years because Grimsley would have been in a juvenile detention facility from approximately age thirteen through eighteen. So why now, as an adult as Yosi Trenglman, was he baiting him, and especially, how did he ever know to use the word “murderer”? He could have only received that information from either Mycroft’s inner circle or the armed men who had arrested him at Appledore. Then again, if Trenglman were somehow tapping into the satellite system to know where agents were located in the world, might he also be tapping into top secret government information? In many ways, that made him far more dangerous than Magnussen had ever been. Magnussen was the ultimate blackmailer, but Magnussen never pulled a trigger.

Had the six eastern European men been killed as a part of Trenglman’s mission or part of his psychopathic need to kill? If the latter, then Trenglman was a serial killer hiding in plain sight within MI6, and Sherlock could so far count nine bodies in his wake which included the foster parents, the thief in Ireland, and the six Eastern Europeans. How many more were there? Where was the entire trail of blood and what were his motives?

There was also the question of whether or not Trenglman knew whose chip signal he was shooting at. Was he just randomly killing agents? Had Sherlock simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time? After all, he was a public figure. No one really needed a chip to find him. Anyone could find him. He received death threats on a fairly regular basis, although most came from behind prison walls.

Sherlock asked Mycroft for four chips with duplicate signatures to his own. He would use the duplicates as decoys. If Trenglman was somehow tapped into the satellite, he would bait him out of hiding with the decoys. His plan did not involve any danger to civilians. He hoped he could catch Trenglman with just one chip, because he knew that if Trenglman suspected he was being baited that then the game would change dramatically. Sherlock had not quite convinced Mycroft of anything regarding Trenglman, but even Mycroft’s suspicions became aroused when Trenglman could not be verified at the location from where his chip was sending a signal.

And Sherlock knew suddenly that he had to draw Trenglman out much as he had drawn out Moriarty. He would draw him out in the open to play the final game. There was always the chance, however, that Trenglman might run if Sherlock declared to him what knowledge he had of him. It was best to play only the Moriarty game.

One advantage he did have, however, was a plethora of cell phones which were used widely by his homeless network, any one of which he could use to send a text that would come up only with the number on the other end. An untraceable number. The other advantage he had was Trenglman’s phone number from his file.

The duplicate chips arrived via a government car, and Sherlock was quick to get into the car, his eyes furtively glancing at open building windows, rooftops, anywhere a gunman could hide.

Anthea was waiting for him in the back seat. She handed him a small package as the car drove away from 221B Baker Street. “The chips are active but cannot be read by the satellite through this material. Do not remove them until it is time as we won’t be able to distinguish your signal from these if there is a problem.”

He took the packet and tucked it inside his coat. “So, when’s the wedding date?” he asked.

She was wearing an engagement ring. “December. I know it probably seems fast but we’ve known each other since we were kids. Just the romance part moved quickly.” She said simply. “And you? What about the one who is special to you?”

“I’m not really the settling down type.” He said. “Domestic bliss and all.”

“Then why do you look distressed when you say that?” she asked.

He had long ago tucked away any desire for what others considered a “normal” life. He was not normal, and others did not see him as normal and most often made a negative point of it. Even his brief foray into attraction with Irene Adler was based mostly on attraction of the intellect. He had even put himself on the line to rescue her in Karachi, hoping that perhaps there was more between them than the intellectual magnetism, but while had had hoped for a warm and loving night as he skirted her into his own type of witness protection, he quickly discovered that although he greatly esteemed her intellect, she was not the person he could ever trust to lose emotional control with. It had not been a normal attraction, and she had a way of undercutting the rest of him, of continuing to rub salt in the wound of never fitting in. Only Molly had ever totally accepted him, faults and all. Molly had stood up to him and taken him to task but had never disparaged him. Even so, domestic bliss… he did not know relationship bliss. He did not allow himself to experience it because he did not believe it was for him. He had given Molly his body but not his heart. He wanted to give it, but letting it go meant letting go of the tight, protective control he kept on it.

“I could be dead by nightfall,” he said simply. “One carefully aimed bullet and I cease to exist. Nothingness. No point in caring then, is there?”

“That’s a rather bleak outlook on life.” She said.

“Life is nothing more than a biological and chemical chain reaction.”

Even though he said the words, he had not said them with conviction, and he knew it.

“But what was behind the biological and chemical reaction that created you, Mr. Holmes? It was your parents’ love. You can’t reduce everything to biological and chemical science.”

“Why not?” he asked almost bitterly.

“Because that’s not life. It’s just living, and living without a life or love is empty, and human beings aren’t meant to be empty. That includes you. You’re a human being too.”

“Some would say I’m little more than a machine.”

“Must be hurtful.” She smiled at him, but he looked away. He did not want her to see the tears in his eyes that he was desperately fighting.

“I’ve been called worse.”

The car drove around several blocks, and he was let out two blocks from Baker Street. He made his way stealthily back to 221B Baker Street, entering through Mrs. Hudson’s back door by the bins. “Just passing through,” he said simply as he walked by her in the kitchen and exited into the hallway. He bounded up the stairs and into 221B.

First order of business was to pack a small survival kit into a rucksack. Food was a problem as he really kept very little in the flat, and a quick scan of the cupboards revealed little that he could take with him. Back down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat he went, searching through her cupboards.

“Sherlock! What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just temporarily borrowing.” He said as he gathered up a few items. He left her flat as quickly as he came, while his mind made extensive lists of what he would need, and he raced through his flat to gather the items. He had not been this undercover since Serbia where he was eventually captured and then tortured. Sherlock looked at the bullet-proof vest, but he did not pick it up.

A taxi met him out front several minutes later, and he quickly jumped into the back seat with the rucksack.

“King's Cross Station,” he said simply, and he immediately removed his own chip from his inner coat pocket and added it to the envelope with the duplicate chips. He had just made himself invisible to satellite tracking.

He pulled a spare cell phone from his pocked and immediately texted:

BORED YET?

I’M COMING TO GET YOU.

YOU KNOW HOW TO FIND ME.

I.O.U.

TIME TO FINISH THE GAME.

SH

In truth he did not know how to find him. He was bluffing. He hoped, however, that Trenglman would call his bluff… if Trenglman did not kill him first.


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft was in his office when he received news that Sherlock’s signal had gone completely dark. This meant one of two things: that he was in hiding where the satellite could not get a signal or that he’d removed his chip and was masking the signal somehow. Mycroft had had suspicions about the chip having been removed ever since the Aberdeen investigation, but he could not quite prove it. He’d also had suspicions that somehow Sherlock was involved in the satellite hacking, but he could not prove that either, and all governmental investigations to find the hackers had come up completely fruitless. Nevertheless, he also favored that Sherlock had gone undercover and was in a place he could not be tracked. He did not like that Sherlock was off radar, even if he was investigating, but he understood the potential danger his brother might be encountering. He did know, however, that a signal would show up when Sherlock was laying his trap, but what he did not know was whether or not the signal would be Sherlock’s personal signal or one of the duplicates.

***

John took the tube into central London, exiting at the Baker Street Station. He had not heard from Sherlock in seventy-two hours, and that was unusual only in that he had texted Sherlock many times and Sherlock had failed to respond at all. This was completely unlike Sherlock who was absolutely OCD about returning a text except if it were from Mycroft. Those he generally ignored. For Sherlock not to respond to John, however, was out of character and spelled potential trouble. John had phoned Mrs. Hudson to ask about him, but all she had said was that he’d come through like a whirling dervish to get some food from her cupboards and that she had not heard from him since.

He arrived at 221B Baker Street and immediately went to Mrs. Hudson’s door. “Not heard anything?” he asked.

“Nothing at all.” She said. “No sound at all from upstairs. He wasn’t making much sense the last time I saw him. Barging in here like he lived here. Not that I really mind, but it did concern me a bit. Is everything all right with him?”

“Don’t know.” John said. “I’m just going to go up and have a look.”

“I’ll come with you.” She said.

“No,” John insisted. “Let me have a look first and I’ll let you know if it’s all clear.”

He left Mrs. Hudson at the bottom of the stairs. He opened the door to the flat very slowly, all his soldier instincts and training on high alert. He honestly did not know if he would find Sherlock dead, and he did not want Mrs. Hudson to witness that. What he found, however, was silence. It was the same silence he had met when visiting the flat for the first time after Sherlock’s supposed suicide. This was slightly different, however, as he searched the entire flat for any place Sherlock could be, if he were dead or hiding. But there was no one there. There was no sign of forced entry, no sign of any foul play. It was just the general dusty, barely tidy flat that John had always known.

Then he saw the bullet proof vest laying on the floor beside Sherlock’s chair, and he groaned. “Oh no.” He knew instantly that Sherlock was out there somewhere without any protection at all. “Bloody hell.” He muttered.

Now John looked more carefully, especially in Sherlock’s bedroom. John had always respected the privacy of the room knowing how particular Sherlock was about the order of his personal things. Sherlock always made his bed with almost military precision on the days he was not traipsing about lazily while wrapped only in a sheet. Thankfully those days had been rare and only occurred when John had not been present. Even so, the bed was made on this day, but the slightly wrinkled duvet at the end of the bed suggested some sort of flurried activity. Otherwise Sherlock would have straightened it. Whereas the rest of the flat could seem slightly disheveled, his bedroom was always perfectly neat. John tugged at the duvet and straightened it. He opened Sherlock’s armoire. All the shirts, jackets and trousers hung neatly—no, perfectly. A few pairs of dress shoes in an orderly row as if he’d used a ruler to align them. Probably did. He pulled open the lower drawers. Odds and ends of costumes and disguises in little containers, each labeled not by hand but from labels run through a printer with a specific bold font.

In the lowest drawer there was an empty space on one side. What had been there? He tried to remember if he’d ever seen anything stored there or if he’d ever seen in the drawer at all. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He knew one person who might have that answer, and he dialed. “Anderson? Remember when you searched Sherlock’s apartment last year for drugs? Do you by chance remember what he kept in his lowest armoire drawer?” He listened for a moment. “A rucksack. Right. Thanks.”

John returned to the living room and did a quick scan, immediately frustrated and overwhelmed by the number of visual clues that he could not sort in the fractions of seconds that Sherlock could. He did notice, however, the parallel timelines of Grimsley and Moriarty, but why had Sherlock tacked another timeline at the end of Grimsley’s marked “Trenglman.” What had Sherlock been working on? What had he pieced together? John turned around and went to Sherlock’s desk, desperately searching for any clue. Anything. A clue. Just one clue. C’mon, Sherlock. Tell me. He moved some papers and that’s when he saw the piece of paper with the words:

ANTON GRIMSLEY = YOSI TRENGLMAN

Even so, he still did not understand the connection. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“John? I was worried.” Mrs. Hudson said. “Everything all right?”

“Mrs. Hudson. Yes. It’s all right. He’s not here. Just searching for any clue where he might have gone.”

She looked at the papers with the names. “Who are those people?”

“One’s a kid and the other works for the government.”

“Clever.” She said.

“What’s clever?” he asked.

“They’re an anagram. That’s actually an easy one. I love doing them.“

John did a double take, then checked the letters, and he realized and understood instantly that Sherlock was playing a very dangerous game, more so than either of them had initially anticipated. John gave Mrs. Hudson a quick kiss on the forehead. “Thank you.”

John grabbed up the piece of paper and stuffed in his pocket, then sprinted for the door. Mrs. Hudson called after him. “Where are you off to? Where’s Sherlock, John? John!” But he was already out the front door.

John hailed a cab outside and asked to be taken to the Diogenes Club. Mycroft was always there at that time of day, but he texted Mycroft to let him know that he was on his way.

When he arrived at the Diogenes Club, he was met outside and immediately shown back into a private room where Mycroft was waiting with a fresh service of tea. As soon as the doors shut behind him, John said, “Where’s Sherlock?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and sipped his tea.

“Of course you do. He’s bloody micro-chipped.”

“Yes, but he’s not on the radar at the moment. Hasn’t been seen or heard from for three days. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

John swore under his breath, then fished the paper out of his pocket. He handed it to Mycroft. “Your agent is a serial killer, Mycroft. Been doing it since he was a kid.”

Mycroft looked at the paper and the names. He instantly saw the anagram without even trying, and he swallowed hard, which did not escape John’s notice. “John, sit down and have some tea.”

“No, I’d prefer to stand, because I’m not staying long. I’m going to find Sherlock.”

“That would be impossible at the moment.” Mycroft said calmly. “Do sit down.” When John hesitated a little longer, Mycroft said more firmly, “Sit down, John.”

John sat down, and Mycroft poured him a cup of tea, then offered it to him. John took the tea but did not take his eyes off of Mycroft. “What is it you want to say? Is Sherlock dead? Is he?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Mycroft said slowly, carefully choosing his words. “But there is something you should know.”

***

Sherlock disembarked in Liverpool at the Liverpool Lime Street Station and immediately hailed a taxi to the Britannia Adelphi Hotel. He had been riding trains around Britain for three days without getting off except to change trains. For the first forty-eight hours he had waited for a return text from Trenglman, and he began to fear that one would not come. He feared that Trenglman might realize his own personal game was over and that he’d try to flee, but he hoped the psychopathic killer would not be able to resist the game. He was nearly falling asleep when a text alerted him.

YOU’VE BEEN SLOW AT THIS GAME

I’VE BEEN DISAPPOINTED

SO ORDINARY SO BORING

STILL ON THE SIDE OF THE ANGELS?

NOT FROM WHAT I’VE HEARD

ONE SHOT

I WAS SO PROUD OF YOU

DEFINITELY NOT ONE OF THE ANGELS

MEET YOU IN HELL

JM

Sherlock was not certain if Trenglman was onto him or if he were simply still playing the game as Moriarty, but that he was playing Moriarty was absolutely confirmed now. Even so, Sherlock gritted his teeth and startled a little at the veiled comment. Was he referring to the murder of Magnussen or something else? That he was using language specific to what Moriarty had said on the rooftop of Barts was also a little disconcerting. How did he know to use that language? Had he seen the report that Sherlock had written after the incident? How had he seen it? It was classified. He was not even certain Lestrade had ever seen it. Then again, if Trenglman had tapped into the satellite, there was nothing to stop him from also finding a way into government secrets.

It also occurred to Sherlock that there could be a second agent within MI6 who was possibly feeding Trenglman sensitive information, but if that were the case, then bringing in Trenglman would also expose the second person and perhaps an entire network.

It had taken Trenglman two days to respond, something which made Sherlock slightly uneasy, because he knew that Trenglman would be wondering how Sherlock had got his number, how much Sherlock had deduced, and whether or not it was worth continuing the charade or just completely disappear again. Sherlock had begun to suspect the latter, but that Trenglman did respond suddenly upped the ante.

One of them was going to die this time, and Sherlock knew that all his deductive prowess and IQ were no match for a high-powered scope rifle. His body was an ordinary body subject to the same vagaries of illness, damage and death as anyone else.

Sherlock did not have a lot of worldly possessions, but his fame over the past several years had brought in some high-profile cases with generous funding, and he had hired a financial adviser and CPA to handle the bulk of his finances, generally choosing to ignore the tedium of investments and banking entirely. He found their type of work incredibly dull and boring. He did sometimes think of retirement, however, and he had already purchased a small 19th century stone cottage, which he called Sparrow's Nest, out in the country that he sometimes escaped to when he felt overwhelmed. It was the title deed to the cottage that was in the envelope for Molly. The house sat on four acres and back from the main road a bit, obscured from view by large trees. It almost could have been a little fairy tale cottage. There was a small stream that ran through the property and even a little pond. He’d had a small work shed installed in the back where he planned to set up all his scientific equipment and continue his work there, perhaps writing papers on the deductive process and his own discoveries. Maybe he would take up a hobby like beekeeping or raising show-quality Irish Setters. But no. If he were to be killed, he wanted Molly to have it. He could envision her there with some sort of little animal sanctuary that she’d start. That would be so like her. He owned the property free and clear, but he’d also left her enough money to be certain the taxes were paid for the next twenty years at least.

Sherlock shuddered. He had allowed himself to think about Molly again for a moment, and he had to stop. He had to push that part of his life down again. He could not allow it to break his concentration, and it had because it had been ten minutes since he’d received Trenglman’s text.

MY RULES

LOOK FOR MY SIGNAL

NO WITNESSES

NO QUARTER GIVEN

FIND A PRIEST AND MAKE AMENDS

NO FAKING YOUR DEATH THIS TIME

YOU REALLY WILL BE DEAD

SH

He only had to wait a few minutes this time before the text came back:

YOU MAKE IT TOO EASY

JUST LIKE OLD TIMES

JM

Sherlock had traveled by train for another day after sending his text. He could not sleep. He had to calm himself for the task that was ahead: the task of leaving a satellite microchip trail to follow. His mission would be to mislead and misdirect Trenglman and hopefully draw him out and overcome him without the trail making Trenglman too suspicious. Then too he knew that Mycroft was certainly already up in arms about Sherlock’s signal going black for so long.

If Trenglman was going to play the Moriarty game, Sherlock would continue to play it also. It was, at least, a way to communicate without letting on too much.

He paid for the standard room at the Britannia Adelphi Hotel in cash, preferring not to use a credit card that could be traced to that exact location. He was not concerned about Trenglman finding him that way but about Mycroft sending in agents or the local constabulary to find him and perhaps interfere. He already knew that was possible when he revealed the first chip, something he would not do unless he slept first. He did not know if he would sleep once he put his plan in action, nor did he know how long it would take to get Trenglman on the move to his location.

He had barely shut the door to his hotel room when his phone buzzed with a text.

SOMEWHERE IN TIME

Damn. Why had they not decided that if neither responded within a certain time frame that it meant the same as ENDURANCE? But they had not and it was too late now. If he did not answer her, she would be expecting him. If he did answer her and his phone was being tapped, his location could possibly be ascertained by Mycroft. Of course, if he failed to show up at Molly’s flat after not responding she would worry. She would either think that Sherlock was standing her up or that he was just being an arse or perhaps in danger. All of the scenarios put him on the losing side. Maybe if he died John would tell her that he’d died trying to save Britain. Maybe he’d be a hero after all instead of a disgrace. Instead of responding, however, he blocked her number. He would unblock it if he survived his encounter with Trenglman, but for now he needed to silence her. He had not answered John’s texts either, but he left John unblocked in case he needed his help should he survive.

John always berated him for never calling the police and always trying to do things on his own, but Sherlock knew that once the microchips started being active that Trenglman would follow their trail as would Mycroft, so the cover of blackout he now had was only temporary anyhow. Even Mycroft, however, would not know which chip was Sherlock and which was not, however.

He slept fitfully, if at all. Sometimes he welcomed sleep, but it was often his enemy, eluding him while taunting him. Sometimes he could still feel pain from his major surgery over a year ago to repair damage to his liver, and this was one of those times: the misfiring of nerves still trying to reconnect could feel like little needles poking him from inside. Abdomen muscles that had been cut and tethered back for full access to his shredded liver ached with soreness and tight scar tissue. It always seemed to hurt worse when he was under stress. Molly always knew to do. She would fix him a hot water bottle and lay it over the scar, and it always helped. He grimaced not from pain but because she had once again crept into his thoughts. How did agents with families ever manage to blot them out of their minds and get on with the tasks of the job? His brain was better than theirs. He had more control over it. He knew he was better, and yet in that moment he felt utterly vulnerable and completely at odds with his own humanness. What he would not have given to be able to step outside of time and receive comfort and a little sense of security.

He got up and paced the light-colored carpet as he rubbed his 10” scar, then went to the window to look out. He did not need to exercise caution at the moment as no one knew where he was. At least he did not think so.

He debated waiting another day to start the final baiting of Trenglman. He was tired and wanted to go into it with a completely clear head. He also did not know how long the baiting would take. Since he did not know where Trenglman was, he did not know how long it would take him to respond to the first microchip. Of course, there was always the chance he was not operating alone either.

However, he did not wait another day. As soon as the shops were open the next day, he made his way out of the front of the hotel and turned left, walking the short distance to where Brownlow Hill and Mount Pleasant streets met at an angle, where a few trees and benches had been set up. He crossed Brownlow Hill and casually sat down on one of the benches. He scanned the area for CCTV cameras. He discretely opened his coat and pulled out the envelope with the chips. He had several small patches of duct tape attached to the inside of his coat, and he removed one chip and one piece of duct tape, placed the chip in the duct tape and then taped it under the bench.

There was no need to text Mycroft of his whereabouts. If the chip was working, Mycroft would immediately be notified, and he was. Even John saw it on Mycroft’s computer screen.

“Three days missing and now he’s in Liverpool? Did he walk?” John asked.

“It’s his first signal.”

“Can you pinpoint it exactly?”

“Not exactly but within ten yards.”

“I should go there. I’ll find him.”

“John, he’s trying to draw him out. We can’t arouse suspicion, especially not on this first signal.”

“He’s out there alone and unprotected, Mycroft. I’m going to Liverpool.”

The door to Mycroft’s office opened then, and Anthea came in with a package. She laid it on Mycroft’s desk, and he nodded a thank you, and she turned and left. “I thought you might insist, and I’ve no way to stop you.” He slid the package towards John. “You’ll be wanting this.”

John opened the package. It was his gun, the same gun that had been used by Sherlock to kill Magnussen.

Mycroft smiled but barely. “Do remember that parents should lock up their guns from the children. Sherlock is sometimes little more than a spoiled, narcissistic child who thinks he is above the law because he is smarter than practically everyone else, except me, of course. I hope I have made myself perfectly clear on this matter.”

“Perfectly,” John said. “Thank you.”

Sherlock returned to his hotel room after placing the chip. It could be a while before there was any activity. Although he had no proof, he suspected that Trenglman might have been in London. He felt certain, however, that Trenglman would be in the area within twenty-four hours, and he set up watch by his window that overlooked the area where he’d planted the chip. He hoped to catch a glimpse of Trenglman either as a blond or looking very much like Moriarty. There were a few times he sat up a little straighter to take a second look, but he doubted Trenglman would actually go out in the open. No, he was probably set up somewhere with his scoped rifle waiting for Sherlock to appear.

It was not quite six hours later when something caught his eye. The hair, the gait. John Watson. “No, John! No!” he gritted. John was very near the planted chip and on the phone to someone whom Sherlock deduced to be Mycroft. John was looking in every direction and Sherlock instinctively moved back from the window.

If Trenglman was already in the area and watching, he would recognize John from his association with Sherlock, and that would make it look as if Sherlock had backup, something that was not part of this final 'game.' Trenglman might run and that would ruin the plan.

Sherlock quickly picked up his extra cell phone and typed:

KILL THE BIRDY

He watched the fish and chips/kebob restaurant across the street, and a young woman came out with a wrapper of fish and chips and made her way across the street to the bench where Sherlock had planted the microchip. She began to eat her food in her lap, but she lost control of the food and it fell to the ground. She bent down to pick it up and reached beneath the bench to remove the chip. Her food all gathered back up but obviously unfit to eat, she took the entire ruined bundle to the nearby trash bin, and dropped it in. She took an extra moment and removed a pair of pliers from her pocket and crushed the chip several times, cutting it in half and dropping it into the bin before walking off casually.

Sherlock had recruited at least one of his homeless network to help him in Liverpool, and the young woman would now return to her normal haunt in London.

John looked around again on the street. He was indeed on the phone with Mycroft. “What do you mean it just stopped without moving? How could it be here one second and not the next? He’s got to be here still.”

“Get off the street, John. Get out of view.” Mycroft warned him. “ _Now_.”

John quickly sprinted into the nearest shop. Sherlock watched him disappear into the shop. It was time for him to leave as well. Time to move to the next destination. Nevertheless, he did not want to seem too obvious and sat still for three more hours before catching a cab and leaving the hotel and Liverpool.

I WAITED

YOU DIDN’T COME OUT TO PLAY

NOT VERY FRIENDLY

SH

A few moments later he received the reply.

HIDE AND SEEK

CHILD’S PLAY

YOU SAID NO WITNESSES

COWARD

JM

The cab took him west out of Liverpool, across the River Mersey, then south to Chester. John’s appearance in Liverpool had forced him to change his plans. He had three extra microchips remaining plus his own, and he thought about having them all go off at the same time. That way John could not follow him, but it was too late to coordinate that now. He placed a chip on the obelisk in the grassy Grosvenor Roundabout. He was tempted to set up lodging for a night at Abode Chester so that he could monitor anyone coming and going from the roundabout, but he decided to leave the chip in place and possibly have it removed later by one of his people. He needed to move to his next location, and he immediately headed to the Chester Railway Station where he caught the train and began to make his way into Wales.

John received word again of the new microchip signal, and he immediately made his way down to Chester, but this time he did not go out in public but set himself up at the MC Café Bar and Grill to monitor any activity in the roundabout. He was several hours behind Sherlock but did not know it. “You’re sure the signal is coming from this area? There’s nothing there but a roundabout.” He said to Mycroft. “Is it moving at all?”

“Completely stationary.” Mycroft said. “Just like the last one.”

“Then he’s planted a chip somewhere close by, but it would be impossible to find a single chip without a ground-held tracking device.”

“It doesn’t matter about the planted chip, John.” Mycroft said wearily. Mycroft could find Sherlock slow, but John was nearly impossibly so. “What does matter is that you stay out of sight. If you were seen the first time, he’ll be looking for you again.”

“I’m not unaware of being tracked by an enemy, Mycroft. I did spend time in Afghanistan, remember?” John said. “There’s always a chance that a chip isn’t moving because he’s dead somewhere.”

“No. He’s building a trail. You just have to trust me and wait there for the next signal.”

Sherlock took the train to the small town of Llandano Junction where he changed trains and headed south. He did not begin his excursion, however, before crossing deep into a paddock and into a herd of sheep. He was able to walk directly up to a ewe, and he placed a microchip on the back of the ear tag. This chip would at least move around while at the same time not endangering any human lives. The sun was nearly setting, and he would catch the last train down to Blaenau Ffestiniog, right in the heart of the Migneint-Arenig-Dduallt moorlands.

John took the same train a few hours later. It was dark now, but he knew there was another signal and that this one was moving which was different. It was not covering a lot of territory, but it was moving nonetheless. He wondered if Trenglman could possibly be on the train. Would he look like Moriarty? Would he sound like Moriarty? Would he be wearing a disguise? John was not quite sure what he would do with him if he were there. He did not have the authority to arrest anyone, but he would at least be able to keep Trenglman at gunpoint until the authorities arrived. He stood up from his seat and began to walk through the car, observing every face, taking a second glance at a few. He went through all the passenger cars this way, but he saw no one who remotely resembled Trenglman. He returned to his seat in defeat. He really had hoped to find him.

John arrived at the Cyffordd Llandano/Llandano Junction station and stepped out of the train station only to be met with a slew of flashing police cars and a lot of spectators. He immediately feared the worst. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Some sodding bastard shot one of my prize ewes.” A farmer said.

Several men carried the ewe on a tarp from the paddock to the main road. Clean shot through the ribs to the heart as if it had been hunted. John noticed the duct tape on the back of the ear tag and the small rice-shaped lump under the duct tape. “I’m a doctor, let me see what I can do!” he volunteered.

“She’s already dead!” the farmer insisted.

“Sometimes it’s just shock. Let me see what I can do!” John said. He bent down and placed his head on the side of the sheep. It had been shorn recently and there was not too much wool interfering, but his left hand gently stroked the ewe’s head and ear as he listened, and he managed to work off the duct tape without much difficulty. He stood up quickly. “Yep. Dead. Rigor mortis setting in. Nothing I can do.” He watched for a moment, then turned and walked away.

When he had walked some distance away, he called Mycroft. “I’ve got the chip.”

“Destroy it, John!” Mycroft insisted. “Destroy it now! Trenglman is still there somewhere waiting for the next signal. And that’s going to be you if you don’t get rid of it.”

“Maybe I can draw him out with it.” John said.

“Chances are he already knows you’re there. What advantage do you think you have? Destroy it now!”

John looked around, found a small rock, then smashed the chip on top of a low lying stone wall. “Now what?”

“Get a cab to Colwyn Bay and find a hotel.” I’ll let you know when we get the next signal.”

John believed some of the people in the crowd might be Mycroft’s agents, but he could not say for certain, and he knew he was not in a safe place. He hailed the one cab in front of the train station and quickly left the area.

As soon as the cab left, someone in the crowd turned to look at the cab. Someone who looked incredibly like Moriarty. He stepped back into the shadows and walked back into the train station.

SOMEONE WILL ENJOY LEG OF LAMB TONIGHT

YOUR PET I MEAN COLLEAGUE IS HERE

COME OUT OF HIDING

OR I WILL FIND HIM AND SKIN HIM BEFORE I KILL YOU

NEW RULES

JM

Sherlock received the text and startled. Why could not John leave well enough alone? This was not his battle, but he was not going to allow him to be in further danger either. He opened his coat and removed the packet with the chips. He opened the packet and removed the small specimen bag that had held his personal microchip since Molly removed it so many months before. He put it in a separate pocket. He was now the true target, and now he had to run.


	15. Chapter 15

_“Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering” - Paulo Coelho._

Sherlock stepped off the train in the small Welsh village of Blaenau Ffestiniog. His only temporary advantage in the game was that he was slightly ahead of Trenglman, but by how much was uncertain. It was dark, and he needed to escape the town before his pursuer arrived, but at this point in the game he was no longer interested in taking any transportation. Everything now would be on foot, and if he had to do it on foot, so did Trenglman. That is what he wanted. To draw him out far enough so that when or if he overtook him, there would be no human collateral damage.

He knew that John would have acted impulsively to come after him and would not be prepared. He would have no way of tracking Sherlock out in the Snowdonia countryside. Even if Mycroft were helping him, there would come a point when cell phone signals would be lost for want of a tower.

Around the eastern side of Blaenau Fffestiniog were the heaps of grey shale from the shale mines that had long been abandoned. Too dangerous to go that way. To go the other way meant that he would be forced out into the wilderness of Snowdonia, into the rugged country of mountains and moors and bogs. It was daunting enough to face that country in the daytime, but to face it at night was even more intimidating. He hitched a very short ride southwest to the Tanygrisian Reservoir.

Sherlock donned his night vision goggles and began his trek northwest into the wilderness towards the Moelwyn range. He was reminded of being hunted by Serbian forces while undercover. He had had a rucksack then, but as the trained dogs closed in on him, he had abandoned it in order to run faster. Eventually he had been overtaken by helicopter, soldiers and the dogs. Here it would only be between him and Trenglman, he hoped.

He could see things with the night vision goggles that he would not have even seen in the daytime although they were animals moving about. A few deer, some rabbits, other small mammals. He was not certain about all of them. He would be able to see his target coming. Except for the mist. A blanket of marine layer was coming off of the sea.

He did not know how far behind him Trenglman was, if he’d even reached Blaenau Fffestiniog, but the hunt was on, and Sherlock was the hunted. He knew where he was going, and it was going to be a hard climb to get there. He wished he had had better mountaineering gear, but being in the outdoors as such was not his milieu. The only thing he had in his favor was that he had little fear of heights. It’s what gave him an advantage when standing on the edge of Bart’s roof before his fall a few years earlier. He often thought that if he were an animal, he’d be a bird of prey, soaring on the thermal currents while his sharp focus was fixed on prey below. Thankfully, he was not required to do any actual mountain climbing, but scaling the Moelyn Mawr (2,530 ft) and its slightly smaller sibling peak, Moelyn Bach (2,330 ft) necessitated some very serious hiking. They were directly in his path, however, and to go around them would have cost him much extra time. As Sherlock began his steep, rock-strewn hike, however, he began to doubt he had made the correct choice, especially in the mist. He constantly looked behind him, but the night vision goggles gave him little help in the dense fog.

Migneint-Arenig-Dduallt, a two-hundred kilometer moorland in Snowdonia, Wales. It was the site Sherlock chose for a final meeting with Trenglman. It had the advantage of vast space with little to no population, which meant that no civilians would be harmed. He had thought briefly of staying in London to draw out Trenglman, but he felt there was too much potential for collateral damage, and he was unwilling to take that risk.

Sherlock turned on his satellite phone to get GPS bearings in the night mist. He needed topography. He regretted not having proper hiking shoes. Even a pair of trainers would have been better, but he had been in such a hurry to leave London that he had forgotten to change his shoes, and they were entirely unsuitable for the terrain. He checked the time. 22:30. There would be no sleeping tonight, and he was already exhausted.

He found an abandoned 19th century stone church with no roof and crumbling slate walls, and he placed his last duplicate chip between the cracks near the top. He knew it would give a good signal from there. That left him only his original chip which he placed back into the protective envelope. He hoped, if he were being monitored, that it would simply look as if he had stopped for the night and perhaps was setting up camp. However, now he had to find a vantage point in the area in the misty darkness to monitor the church.

Camping in general was not his normal milieu but there were several times while undercover for two years dismantling Moriarty’s network that he had been forced to be a little on the wild side, including nearly two weeks in the woods in Serbia before being captured. However, any campfire might alert his position to Trenglman, and so there would be warm meal that night. That small tin of soup from Mrs. Hudson’s cupboards would remain unopened. He had not really planned his supplies as well as he would have liked, and although his mind had been firing rapidly on all he had needed to do for preparation, he had not collected all the items on his mental list.

It was impossible to receive a cell phone signal as the nearest tower was in Blaenau Ffestiniog. There were simply miles of uninhabited hills, marshes, bogs, rock outcroppings, heaps of slate from the mines, and low vegetation. However, he did have a satellite phone, and he knew that would be enough to contact Mycroft if needed.

He climbed to the top of a knoll and settled down as best he could on the rocky terrain. It was all shale, of course, but that made it no more comfortable. It was a good vantage point, however, for the surrounding countryside, what he could see of it, that is, when there was an occasional opening in the mist.

He lost track of time. Had he dozed off for a moment? He was not certain, but he saw her, just as he had seen her many times before their first night together. She stood on the top of the rock pinnacle in pure white diaphanous silk, like an angel. Maybe it was an angel, but he did not believe in angels, so how could that be? He did not believe in ghosts either, but how could she be there so near him in this dark time? He tried to call to her, but no voice came out of him. She raised her arms and her clothing rippled in the wind behind her. He called to her again. “Molly!”

As if by some miracle, she turned to him and smiled just as a gunshot pierced the silence and hit her squarely in the chest, exactly in the spot he had been shot. She looked down at her wound that began to seep profusely with blood, and she turned away and fell like a falling angel from the pinnacle, falling like he had fallen from Bart’s roof. “No!” he screamed.

He jerked and gasped sharply, pulling himself out of whatever vision or dream he had just experienced. Dream, more likely. But had he actually heard a gunshot from somewhere? _Must stay awake. Must stay awake._ He listened for any unusual sound, and he quickly donned his night vision goggles to scan for any activity. There was nothing but silence to greet him. Must stay awake.

Twilight on the moors. A faint mist from the ocean lingered doggedly and provided a slight damp chill to the summer morning. There was a hint of burning wood in the air but it was so faint as to probably have been carried on the slight breeze from one of the little hamlets scattered throughout Snowdonia. There was also a particular smell to damp slate that Sherlock could not identify but the minerals were palatable.

Sherlock lay flat on the cold slate, binoculars held to his night vision goggles as he scanned the area, careful to move very little, careful to barely breathe as he watched the ruins of the old shale mining building. He was thirsty and really wanted a hot cup of coffee. Just the thought of coffee made his thoughts drift back to 221B Baker Street. Coffee and biscuits. He had a sugar habit almost as bad as his cigarette habit, but he was particular about where he got his sugar. General candy was not his draw, but chocolates, jams and jellies. Mango pineapple jam… his stomach growled. He had not eaten in over twenty-four hours, but he reasoned there was no point in satiating his stomach if he might be killed anyhow.

He did not know why he felt so pessimistic about his outcome in the case, but he could not shake the feeling. He actually had been more confident that he would have somehow survived the black ops mission he’d nearly been sent on six months previously than he was about this case. He shivered a little, but it was not about being chilled. His body was trying to shut down for sleep, and he was fighting it.

The light was changing to twilight, however, and the goggles became unnecessary. He pulled them off and tucked them back into his rucksack. Something caught the corner of his eye just a few feet from him on a piece of slate - a red laser light. It was followed almost immediately but a gunshot that splintered the small slab of shale. He rolled away quickly as the rock shattered in all directions, but then was caught on the other side by another gunshot that blasted another piece of shale. He rolled back, quickly reaching inside his coat to pull out his last remaining chip, his own chip. He had seconds, maybe. He quickly pulled it out of the satellite proof bag and tucked it in his inner coat pocket.

He could not see the laser light on the back of his head, but he could hear the footsteps approaching behind him, footsteps that crunched against the loose shale.

“Did you really think your trick would work, Mr. Holmes?” the male voice said as it approached him from behind.

Sherlock slowly rolled onto his back, his hands raised. “James Moriarty. Or should I say Agent Yosi Trenglman, I presume.”

Trenglman approached up the hillside, his high-powered scope rifle fixed firmly on Sherlock. The red laser target was directly on Sherlock’s forehead. “I thought you might have figured that out, but I played the game hoping you might have lost a little edge over these past six months.”

“You underestimate me.” Sherlock said. He noticed a slight tremor in his hands, and he could not will it to stop. It was purely exhaustion, he knew, but it could be interpreted as fear. He felt a warm, slow trickle down his forehead and knew it was blood. A ricocheted shard of rock had wounded him when the bullets hit their targets so close by. The seep of blood divided his lined brow to the bridge of his nose, then snaked to the side, down his cheek and to his lips. He could taste his own blood. He was not bleeding profusely, but it was distracting. Might require a stitch or two. More importantly, Trenglman had drawn first blood.

He was a little taller than Moriarty, his face a little more rectangular, but his eyes were beady in the same way, and he moved his mouth similarly when he spoke. He was an excellent Moriarty mimic. Had his demented mind come to believe, even for a short period, that he actually was Moriarty?

“I knew you weren’t in the ruins once your chip stopped moving. That meant you had to be out here watching for me, although you could have easily hidden in one of the mines like a rat. But that’s not like you, is it?” He continued to approach and was now only twenty feet away.

“Don’t care for the damp.” Sherlock said simply. “So is this how we end it? You just shoot me right here. Leave me for the wild animals?”

“What fun would that be? On your feet. Let’s go. This way.”

Sherlock slowly rose to his feet, his hands still raised, and he began to walk in the direction Trenglman indicated.

“Very ingenious removing your microchip.” Sherlock said.

“You would know.”

“Oh, I had extras. Lots of extras. Like bread crumbs, and you followed them perfectly.” He stumbled a little. “You couldn’t resist playing the game.”

“It was you who couldn’t resist.” Trenglman insisted. “Like a child being told not to touch a hot stove. You just had to touch it, and you’ve been burned. Because you never listen. Always think your intellect precludes you from being told what to do. That’s your biggest flaw, you know. You think you’re better than everyone else.”

“Got that from my file, did you?”

“I could tear your world apart. And I will. By tearing you apart.”

Sherlock shuddered and swallowed hard. The voice was like Moriarty’s. He was saying things that Moriarty would say. Was it Moriarty? _Concentrate. Focus._

Trenglman walked Sherlock another mile deeper into the moors to an abandoned mining building which was in similar condition to the church where Sherlock had set the last duplicate chip. When they were several feet from one on the open doorways, Trenglman brought the butt of the rifle down hard on the back of Sherlock’s head, and Sherlock crumpled into unconsciousness immediately.

***

Sherlock was aware of a throbbing pain in his head, but he was also aware that he was unable to do anything about it. He felt his hands being wrenched up above his head. His wrists were bound together, and his ankles were bound. His two cell phones were smashed nearby, and sundry other items from his pockets were strewn about. But he did not see his microchip. Perhaps it had not been discovered. Would he really have missed it? That seemed unlikely, but yet it was nowhere to be seen. He was still wearing all his clothes, and that was some consolation, but he did not know how long he’d been unconscious. He did not think it was for more than a few minutes. There was more blood he could taste. He could not see it, but he had struck his head on a rock when he crumpled, and that had opened a new wound. He assumed there was blood coming from the back of his head too but he could not be sure.

It was hard to focus. Things seemed to be spinning, and he groaned a little as he tried to focus his brain and sight.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good. Wouldn’t want you to miss this.”

“Miss what?” Sherlock asked.

“The end. Your end.”

“You had plenty of opportunity to kill me before. You knew where I lived. Why not just do it then?” Sherlock asked.

“Because you were always available. I could take my time with you, like a cat batting around a mouse before the final kill. And I had lots of other interests to deal with in the meantime. Remember that night you were on the docks and screaming like a maniac for me to shoot you? I could have. I could have ended you right there, but you were so pathetic that it was hardly worth my time. Like hunting a limping animal. What sport is that? It was far more entertaining to watch you suffer.”

“And now your entertainment is over?”

“Oh my entertainment is just beginning.” Trenglman said. “I guarantee you won’t be bored. You do so hate being bored, don’t you? I’ll bet you’re not bored now.”

Trenglman pulled a bowie knife from a sheath on his belt and began to sharpen it on a piece of slate.

“Is that what’s driving you, Anton Grimsley? Boredom?”

Trenglman stopped sharpening his knife for a moment. “I knew the great detective Sherlock Holmes would figure that one out eventually. It was the anagram, wasn’t it?”

“Not terribly clever.” Sherlock admitted. “Amateurish actually. Dummy’s guide for how to change your identity.”

Trenglman back-handed him, and Sherlock’s groaned in pain, spitting blood. His teeth had cut the inside of his lower lip. Trenglman brought the knife tip to Sherlock’s throat.

“The Nazis used to make purses from the corpses of their victims. I just want a new pair of boots. Is that too much to ask?”

“You want my liver and kidneys too?”

“I’m not a cannibal, Mr. Holmes.” He said almost indignantly. “Boots will do fine.”

Sherlock blinked several times. Loss of sleep and he was beginning to have hallucinatory flashes. It was a subtle shift in perception between someone who looked similar to Moriarty to someone who was Moriarty even if his brain told him otherwise. He was even certain he heard Moriarty’s voice. He had to force himself to concentrate harder. His head wound continued to seep at times.

“Oh, I’m hardly worth that effort.” Sherlock managed.

Trenglman began to pop the buttons off of Sherlock’s shirt with the knife tip, and Sherlock instinctively recoiled as Trenglman parted the shirt with the knife. He saw the long scar and growled. “Ruined!”

“You won’t like what you find on my back either.” Sherlock said. “Even more scarred. Sorry to spoil your plans.”

Trenglman hesitated for a moment, and then his fist came down hard on Sherlock’s scar. Sherlock screamed in pain, doubling up as much as he could. Even as Sherlock struggled desperately to catch his breath through the pain, Trenglman grabbed his throat with one hand and pulled him towards him slightly. “No one is coming for you, Agent Holmes. No one. Your little friend? I dispatched him just like the sheep you micro-chipped. Clean shot to the heart. That’s what you get when you play unfairly.” He pushed Sherlock back. “Shall we begin?”

John dead? No. Sherlock’s mind refused to accept it. Trenglman had to be lying. He had to be. Sherlock had always been so good at detecting when someone was lying, but he could not at the moment because he could not get Trenglman and Moriarty’s faces to stop shifting. He was not sure who he was with anymore.

Trenglman grabbed the fabric on Sherlock’s pants at his hip and began to slice them open, and Sherlock tensed. He could not control his anxious breathing anymore. He was frightened. He was not so frightened of death but of dying an excruciating death. His body was subject to the vagaries of pain as much as any other human being, and there was nothing his superior intellect could do to stop what was coming.

A gunshot startled both of them. It was not too far away. It was followed by John’s voice yelling. “Sherlock?” It was faint but not that far away. Within one thousand feet? Sherlock could not be sure. But one thing he knew: It was John’s voice, and that helped focus him. But it unnerved Trenglman enough for him to put down his knife, pick up his scope rifle and turn towards the noise.

Sherlock was still trying to manage the pain from being punched in the gut as Trenglman left the ruins to pursue the noise. Sherlock looked up to where his bound wrists were tethered. An old, rusting piece of metal jutting from the wall. He was bound with only the paracord from his own rucksack, and although it was strong, it was no match for being rubbed vigorously over the sharp edges of the old metal. It snapped in two after a minute and Sherlock slumped down suddenly against the loose shale stones beneath him. As quickly as he could, he began to try to untie his wrists, even using his teeth, and then he grabbed up the knife and cut his ankles free. He stumbled to his feet and quickly checked to see if his microchip was still in his pocket. It was, thankfully, and he hoped that Mycroft would eventually send government back-up, although he did not understand why it was taking so long if it were coming at all. He tucked the knife into his pocket and left the crumbling structure.

Sherlock could see Trenglman off in the distance by about one hundred yards. The last thing he wanted was some sort of old-fashioned shoot-out between John and Trenglman, but he could not see John anywhere. This meant that either John was hiding because he’d seen Trenglman or that John was not as close as previously thought.

Sherlock ducked around the edge of the building. Trenglman suddenly turned and started back for the building. Now was not the time to attempt to draw fire. He was too exhausted and vulnerable, and he was hallucinating. Even the ground under him was undulating, and several hard blinks did not make that stop. He wondered too if he had a concussion, and he felt the back of his head. There was a lump, and he felt the stickiness of clotting blood. He reached down slowly and picked up a large piece of shale and a smaller stone. He remained perfectly still as he heard him approach the ruins again. He was only a few feet away, and the discovery was obviously made that Sherlock was no longer inside, because he came out again with a growl of frustration.

Sherlock could hear the footsteps approaching. Cautious, slow footsteps, and as they neared, he tossed the smaller stone overhead into the ruins. That was all it took to distract Trenglman. Sherlock burst out from around the corner and caught him slightly off-guard, smashing into his firing arm with the stone. The gun misfired as he dropped it with a cry of pain, and Sherlock’s right fist immediately connected with his jaw, slamming him into the side of the building. Sherlock kicked the gun away. He hoped John heard the shot from wherever he was, but he did not know if John could pinpoint the sound. Even before Trenglman could recover, Sherlock’s fist connected a second time.

Trenglman seemed to recover quickly from the blows to the face and pushed Sherlock backwards. He made a move for his gun, but Sherlock rushed and slammed him against the wall. Trenglman grabbed Sherlock’s collar and spun him around, slamming him into the rock wall. He made another move to punch Sherlock in the gut, but Sherlock moved quickly and Trenglman’s fist connected with the rock wall which made him scream. Sherlock grabbed him forced him down, and gravity took them down the slope of mined shale in front of the building, and they rolled hurly-burly down the stones with Sherlock never releasing his grip.

They arrived at the bottom of the large heap, both momentarily stunned as loose shale pieces slid down around them. Sherlock staggered to his feet and pulled up Trenglman by the collar, giving him a powerful roundhouse uppercut to the jaw, and the brawl began in earnest. Hand-to-hand combat was not really Sherlock’s forte, nor did he like doing anything to injure his hands and possibly interfere with his ability to play the violin, but the injuries had already begun, and there was no stopping them. Trenglman was, however, a better fighter, and Sherlock knew that if he were to take another hit to his scar that the fight would be lost. He wished he had the strength of the Golem. What he did have in his favor, however, were his passable skills in Judo. He had not kept up with it as he should have, and he made a mental note to get back into classes for strength and agility training. His skills were just enough to protect his injured left side from further assault.

Sherlock did not see Trenglman anymore. He only saw James Moriarty. He had never thought of Moriarty as a fighter. In fact, Moriarty never seemed to like to get his hands dirty. He had even been indignant when John has wrinkled his Westwood suit. But here he was, fighting. Sherlock tackled him again, his own knuckles raw and bleeding, his clothes torn from the rocks. The two rolled again, fighting for the upper hand, fighting to death. No quarter given.

Sherlock pinned Trenglman to the ground and began to deliver one punch after another. Trenglman could not block him fast enough. They rolled, struggling for dominance, and Sherlock continued to deliver blows to the man’s head, and now Trenglman tried to protect himself. They were both nearly spent from the fighting.

Sherlock gripped Trenglman’s collar. “Just tell me one thing. Did you skin that dog alive?”

Trenglman glared at Sherlock and spit out a little blood before he answered. “What dog?”

“The Irish Setter they found in Walton-on-Thames about twenty-five years ago.” Sherlock shook him roughly. “Did you skin it? Did you? Tell me!”

Trenglman smirked slightly. “That dog always barked at me. I hated that mutt.”

Sherlock’s eyes burned with fury, and his fist came down repeatedly

Again the two men rolled, but suddenly Trenglman went limp. Sherlock grabbed him by the collar and continued to deliver blows to the man’s head. He had visions of Moriarty.

“You are dead!” Sherlock practically screamed. “Why won’t you stay dead?”

Sherlock pulled the knife from his pocket.

“Sherlock!” John yelled from the top of the slope by the ruined building. “Where are you?”

John saw the glint of the knife and rushed down the slope. Clearly Trenglman was out cold, perhaps dead, and Sherlock gripped the knife handle with both hands and raised it up, ready to deal a death blow directly to Trenglman’s heart. “Sherlock stop! Stop!”

“It’s Moriarty!”

“No! It’s not! Don’t do it! Stop!”

John rushed forward and tackled Sherlock off of Trenglman, and Sherlock lost his grip on the knife, but he continued in his rage, even hitting John. The two rolled across the field in an all out fight as John tried to get him under control, and suddenly they rolled off a slight embankment and into a watery, cold bog. Sherlock came up gasping for air, struggling under the weight of his sodden wool coat, and then there were laser target lights on him. Government security forces seemingly came out of nowhere much as they had done at Appledore so many months before, and they somewhat roughly hauled Sherlock out of the bog and onto the mossy embankment, forced him face-down to the ground and handcuffed him.

“It’s over, Mr. Holmes. It’s over.”

John crawled out of the bog with the help of armed security personnel and collapsed on his back next to Sherlock.

At that moment military and medical helicopters flew over the ridge. As the military helicopter hovered directly over them, the medical one touched down in a grassy area not far away.

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes full of desperation and questions. He took a ragged breath, and tears filled his eyes, and he could not stop them. “John. John.”

John rolled towards him and put his arm around him. “It’s going to be all right now. It’s going to be all right.”


	16. Chapter 16

_What is to give light must endure burning. - Viktor E. Frankl_

Sherlock and Trenglman were flown via Medevac from Snowdonia to the MI6 HQ in London. Both were handcuffed to their gurneys, both had a saline I.V. drip started. John rode on the helicopter with them, and his focus was entirely on Sherlock. “John.” Sherlock whispered forcing John to lean down to his battered friend. Sherlock whispered lengthy instructions in his ear, and John immediately checked Sherlock’s inside coat pocket.

John removed the small packet with the microchip. “Don’t worry. I know what to do.”

They arrived on the Heli-pad at MI6 and were immediately taken off the helicopter and whisked inside to the medical bays. At this point his clothes were cut away in a matter of moments, and his handcuffs were removed. John was allowed to stay with Sherlock in the medical bays as his vital stability was assessed. Blood pressure normal, heart rate within normal parameters, lungs clear, pupil response normal, all extremities responding to normal stimuli. The tremor was still noticeable, but he insisted it was only exhaustion. Dressed in a hospital gown, Sherlock underwent a full CT-scan to check for concussion since he had been unconscious for a short amount of time after a blow to the head. John managed to slip the chip under Sherlock’s back before Sherlock went into the CT-scan, and as soon as he was out, John retrieved the chip. Head, chest and hand x-rays revealed only a cracked rib above his liver, and again John managed to get the chip into proper place before the chest x-ray was performed.

Yosi Trenglman, still hand-cuffed to a gurney, passed by the doorway and glared at Sherlock. His face was badly bruised, his nose broken, his eyes blackened, broken ribs. Yet he managed a smirk. “Humans pass out from too much pain, but dogs just keep screaming. Redbeard. Fascinating.” He said.

Sherlock bolted for him, accidentally tearing out his own I.V., only to be held back by medical staff. The agents with Trenglman immediately pushed Sherlock back. “Get him out of here before I kill him!” Sherlock screamed, and Trenglman was immediately removed from the area.

“Mr. Holmes! Please calm down. This is a medical facility, not a boxing ring.” His doctor said sternly. “Please, come sit down again. Let’s finish cleaning your wounds.”

“I have wounds you cannot heal.” He said as tears filled his eyes.

“We all do, sir.” The doctor said kindly. “Let me help with the ones I can heal.”

“Sherlock, it’s over.” John tried to calm him.

He shook his head as tears spilled down his cheeks. “No, John. It’s never going to be over.”

“I think that when you’ve had some decent sleep, you’ll have an entirely different perspective on all this.” John said firmly but gently. He knew Sherlock was not thinking clearly. “Now let’s go back in and they’ll get you cleaned and stitched up, and by morning you’ll feel like yourself again.”

Nevertheless it took him several moments before Sherlock could regain enough control of his emotions to return to the examining room.

Sherlock lay back on the examining table again. The I.V. was re-attached and he was told it needed to stay in until the morning at least. His scalp required stitches in two places, but the wound in his mouth would heal on its own as would the other minor bruising and scrapes. However, he would be sore for a few weeks. He was given a tetanus injection directly into his anterior lateral thigh muscle, a place normally used for infants, but he was already terribly sore from his battle, and that was the place that he thought would hurt the least. It proved to be an extremely painful injection, however, that he grimaced through and which burned furiously, causing him to limp for an hour afterwards. He was prescribed antibiotic cream for the more superficial albeit painful wounds on his hands, especially his knuckles, and he was given oral pain medication to help ease the rest. He was thoroughly cleaned and even his hair was washed for him. After his injuries were attended to, he received ice packs for his hands and belly, and he was escorted back to his room in a wheelchair, but John was not allowed to go further into the government facility.

“Get some rest. I’ll see you soon.” John said, and he palmed the microchip back into Sherlock’s hand.

“You need a shower. You smell like a bog.” Sherlock said with disdain.

Sherlock was escorted to a secure room that required a pass card to enter. Once inside, he could not leave. It was somewhere between a modest hotel room and a basic hospital room. Had his injuries been more severe, he would have been moved to a proper hospital for recovery, but overall his injuries were deemed superficial. On a chair near the end of the bed was a change of his personal clothes. Within minutes a fresh service of tea and a hot meal of tomato pasta were brought in, but the pain killers were working quickly, and he felt his body wanting desperately to sleep. He knew that he might be held there overnight if not longer. He did not have cell phone communication, but he could at least watch the telly. As soon as he turned the telly on, however, a pre-recorded message appeared. It was Anthea.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Please make yourself comfortable and let us know if you need anything. I will be by to fetch you in the morning. Have a good day.”

He barely registered what she had said as he was helped into the bed. Within moments he was asleep having never touched the food.

Just after his breakfast the following morning, Anthea came to his room. He had changed into his normal attire, but he moved very stiffly and painfully. She startled to see his condition and wanted to offer sympathy, but every word was being monitored in the room, and she knew she could not say anything more than she was required to say at the moment. She quickly regained her composure.

“They’re waiting for you as soon as you’re ready.” She said. He struggled stiffly to put on his suit jacket, and she helped him to maneuver into it.

“Who’s waiting for me?” he asked, but he had a gut feeling. He suspected Mycroft and his peers. He immediately stood up, groaning with the effort, and he slowly followed her.

“There’s a car outside.” Was all she could say.

“Did you bring a fresh one?” He asked.

“In the car.” She said. She smiled softly to him and gently touched his arm. “Good luck, Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you.” He said quietly.

Outside the facility, a government car was waiting for him. As soon as he opened the door, he saw a clean coat waiting for him on the back seat. She retrieved it for him and helped him to put it on. He then got into the back seat and shut the door. The car began to drive away.

***

Sherlock was escorted into the cavernous, dark warehouse. He tried to make out shapes but could not see anything in the inky darkness, and the only light at all was from the outside door they had just come through, a door which shut behind them. A small circle on the floor, about five-foot in diameter, suddenly appeared in small, red, low-LED lights. He was led to the center of the circle, and immediately his two escorts left, and he listened to their footsteps fade into the distance and then the echo of the warehouse door shutting. He was left alone in the dark. Alone in the silence.

A light clicked on directly in front of him. It illuminated Lady Smallwood sitting behind a small desk. Other lights came on around him, illuminating other governmental peerage, the same peerage that had interviewed Magnussen about his visits with the Prime Minister.

“A little dramatic, don’t you think?” Sherlock quipped as he squinted in the light.

“Mr. Holmes,” Lady Smallwood spoke first and would in fact preside over the process, “I must remind you before we begin that you are currently in service to MI6 and that anything in this proceeding is confidential. For purposes of national security, this meeting is being recorded.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “No, I am not in service. I did not go on the mission.” He said. “Why am I here? What is this tribunal for? Why was I handcuffed, and why have I been detained like a criminal?”

“Mr. Holmes,” she continued, “You were detained only long enough for us to coordinate our schedules for this meeting. Sorry about being cuffed, but we didn’t want you to kill Agent Trenglman before we could bring him to justice. It was simply a matter of getting the situation under control.”

“So I am now classified as a ‘situation’?” he said.

“You created the situation in the first place,” a male voice spoke from behind him. He did not know who said it. He did not know some of the people on the panel.

“I don’t understand.” He said.

Lady Smallwood continued. “Mr. Holmes, the current Moriarty case was never meant to be real. We hired Agent Trenglman to pose as Moriarty. Unfortunately, we seem to have chosen the wrong person for that task. We did not know about his concealed and fictitious past. Thankfully your dogged pursuit of the truth enabled you to expose him as a problem within MI6, a problem which I assure you will be handled appropriately.”

“What?” It was getting more confusing by the moment, but yet he had expected all along that the case was not what it appeared to be.

“The entire Moriarty case was merely a fabrication we created to keep you in the country.” She said. “Otherwise, by higher authorities, you were to be effectively and permanently exiled.”

“Killed in the line of service you mean. Well, you nearly got that wish.” He corrected. And at that moment, all the pieces began to fall into place. “And how involved was Mycroft in this scheme of yours?”

“He knew, but he did not know the details. I was the one who had to approve the plan. His involvement has been in a minor capacity due to familial ties.” She said.

“You approved? After what I went through for you?” he said in disbelief.

“It was not an easy decision. Please understand that.”

“You created a case where I nearly was killed several times and where I’ve been nearly driven insane trying to solve it?” He felt anger rise in his throat, and his whole body tensed.

“I remind you that you have murdered a man in cold blood.” She said. “Although his death was not mourned by a single person on this panel, you, a member of the Commonwealth—and you are a member of the Commonwealth--still had no right to perform vigilante justice. You put this country’s justice system in a very difficult position. We could not truly afford to lose you to prison or to an undercover mission or exile, but we could not let you go unpunished either. It was hardly a merciful solution, but it was a necessary one.”

As the gravity of his last six months began to weigh on his soul, his jaw dropped open in disbelief. “Do you have any idea what I have been through?”

“Actually we know exactly what you have been through.”

“And the rigged casket? People were hurt.”

“Scrapes and bruises, nothing more. Little more than a firecracker for the media.” MP Lord Pierce-Smith, Brixton North, said.

“Had to start the case off with a bang to pique your interest.” MP Alistair Tottenham, Surrey said.

“So the entire Breitling watch…”

“Fake. Fake camera footage. Our agents in the store acting as employees, Trenglman as Moriarty. We didn’t anticipate it would become so complicated. We didn’t know about his past.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock said tersely. “Did John Watson know about this deception too?”

“Not until your signal appeared in Liverpool.” Lady Smallwood said.

Sherlock began to seethe. “And Molly Hooper at Barts and Detective Inspector Lestrade. Were they in on it?”

“No.” Lady Smallwood said simply, “But we did temporarily alter the records of who claimed Moriarty’s body.”

“And where is his body?”

“Scattered in the Irish sea. Our agents followed his body through departure from the morgue to cremation to the scattering. He doesn’t exist anymore.”

“And the Moriarty animated gif that was on every television screen in the country?”

“That part was coordinated by your brother to give the illusion that the threat was still here and thus the importance to have you pardoned.”

Sherlock’s mind was spinning as he tried to process these seemingly unrelated details of the case. He wanted them to make sense.

“I slogged through the hills of Scotland for this case and caught pneumonia. I’ve had no privacy! I have feared daily for my life!” His words fell on deaf ears. No one was moved. Sherlock looked around.

“I must remind you, Mr. Holmes,” Maxwell Post, MP Rockwell South interjected, “that the British government did keep you out of prison and that you did receive a royal pardon for a crime for which any other citizen of the realm would have received twenty-five years in prison. We cannot allow our citizens to shoot whomever they will for any reason they manufacture, even if you feel it is justified, even though Magnussen had no friends in this room.”

“What is it you are wanting me to say?” he asked.

“Your gratitude would be nice.” Lady Smallwood said. “And an apology.”

“And if I don’t regret killing him?”

Post stood up and slammed his fist onto the table. “We’re not talking about an apology for Magnussen but to the British Government, Mr. Holmes! Do you have any idea of the position you put us in? Or have you no conscience about that?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and fell silent and Lady Smallwood gently motioned for Post to sit down. Post straightened his tie and sat down, but he glared at Sherlock.

“I’m sorry, but I’m still processing the part about this being nothing more than a wild goose chase to punish me.” Sherlock said.

“We prefer to think of it as governmental discipline. The truth is, Mr. Holmes, that this country will always need you and your expertise. Without it, people like Agent Trenglman would still be out there needing to be brought to justice. We depend on you, but that means that you must be dependable in all ways. Have I made myself clear?” Lady Smallwood asked.

Sherlock hesitated, then nodded. “Quite clear. I am sorry for the pains you have gone through to protect me from the justice I deserve. Please forgive me. It will not occur again.”

The several members turned to each other and whispered for a few moments, and Lady Smallwood closed the file in front of her.

“Mr. Holmes, by Her Majesty’s Secret Service, you are hereby formally discharged from this assignment, and you may have your microchip removed at your nearest convenience. Six months of service will be noted in your file.”

“I thought I only got credit for the time in Ireland?”

“No, Mr. Holmes. You have been serving your country since you were micro-chipped.” She smiled a little to him. “I am also recommending an additional six months be credited to your file. All in favor, raise your right hand.”

Slowly, every right hand was raised around him.

“For?”

“For keeping the personal lives of your government officials a little bit safer.” She replied. “I believe that completes any service owed to MI6.”

Magnussen. They could not say the name on record at that moment in the proceedings, but he understood their meaning. They were thanking him for killing Magnussen. He could not verbally acknowledge their meaning, but he nodded his head slightly to her in thanks.

“You are dismissed. This meeting is adjourned.” Lady Smallwood said, and at that they all stood up left. The circle lights around Sherlock’s feet stopped flashing, but he remained on the spot as the warehouse turned black again. He waited in the darkness, and then a door to his right opened. A familiar figure was outlined in the light, and he made his way towards it.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock said.

Mycroft stepped into the warehouse and flipped a switch, flooding the entire space with florescent light. Mycroft approached him slowly.

“Back to Baker Street now, brother dear?” he asked.

“You knew. You knew all along and just watched me chase one false lead after another.”

“I honestly didn’t know everything. I tried to stay clear of it as best I could. Any interference would have been looked at as nepotism and thwarting of justice. Any orders came from my colleagues, not me. You were merely to report to me. At any rate, you brought in Trenglman as a true problem, something we weren’t anticipating. So there was a real case after all.”

“I have been robbed of a private life for six months, Mycroft.”

“And yet I find myself constantly having to step into your private life and sort it out for you, to rescue you from yourself, as it were.”

Sherlock grimaced at the words because there was truth to them and he suddenly did not have a witty or sarcastic comeback.

“Believe it or not, Sherlock, I don’t pry that much into your private life.”

“That’s what you’ve got Lestrade and John Watson doing for you.”

“No.” Mycroft said tersely. “I only ask John to keep me informed if there’s a possibility of drugs, something which he does because he cares about your well being. As do I.”

“Careful, Mycroft. Caring is a disadvantage.”

“Yes, and it continues to put me at a disadvantage where you are concerned, little brother. I once said your loss would break my heart, and I meant it, but even more so it would be broken if you were to die from an overdose, because that’s so preventable, Sherlock. It would be a terrible tragedy. Not to mention what it would do to mummy and daddy.”

“That’s never going to happen.”

“How can I believe that? I’ve been anticipating it since your days at university, since that day you were found nearly asphyxiated in your own vomit.”

“It wasn’t one of my stellar moments, but it will never happen again.”

“So you say. But so do all addicts.”

“Thank you for your unfailing support as always.” Sherlock responded dryly.

“Did you really think it was an intelligent idea to steal my laptop and try to frame Magnussen with the government secrets? It never would have worked, you know. It was a half-baked idea dreamed up when you  were high on morphine after being shot, was it not? You were willing to risk the security of the United Kingdom for your vendetta. You were willing to betray your country, not to mention me. Yes, Sherlock. You betrayed me. Your own brother. How am I ever supposed to trust you again?” Mycroft looked a little hurt.

“Feel free to tell me how stupid I am and how disappointed everyone is in me.” He said. “You’ve been doing it all my life.”

“Don’t play the victim card with me, Sherlock.” Mycroft said. “This was all your doing. This is what happens when you develop friendships and attachments. You start to care and then you do stupid things based on emotion.”

“Is that supposed to compel me into an apology?” he asked.

“Oh, I would never expect an apology from you, brother dear. That would be hoping for too much.”

Again the two stared at each other like two territorial lions ready to battle, but Sherlock finally took a deep breath and said quietly, “Sorry, Mycroft. Sorry.”

Mycroft raised a brow in surprise and then shrugged. “I should have left my laptop at home.” He paused for a moment and then added, “One more thing, brother mine. You needn’t worry so much about Miss Hooper’s safety. We have had her under protective surveillance since Project Lazarus, and the government has no plans to discontinue that service for her.”

“Does she know?”

“She does not.”

Sherlock thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “Let’s keep it that way. No need to alarm her.”

“Sherlock, what I’m saying is, I would not be entirely displeased were she to be present at future family gatherings.”

Instantly Sherlock understood that Mycroft knew he had a relationship with Molly, and there was simply no point in denying it.

“How long have you known?”

“Her sentiment for you has been evident for years, except for that brief liaison with what’s his name…?”

Even Sherlock strained to remember. Then he rolled his eyes with a sigh. “Tom.”

“Yes. Dreadful interlude. Your returned sentiment for her, however, was unanticipated.”

“Well, here’s something else you didn’t anticipate. You were an uncle for a few moments. Molly lost him at twenty weeks, but he was born alive. Just far too small.”

That was news to Mycroft, and he did not have an immediate response as he registered the information. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Both men shuffled their feet in silence for a moment. Then Mycroft added, “So should I be expecting to be an uncle again in the near future? Or some other happy announcement?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and shrugged slightly. “Who knows? So how long do you plan to keep the surveillance on Molly?”

“Not certain, actually. I rate her at level three, the same as you only because of her involvement with Project Lazarus and her association with you. Perhaps in a few years I will downgrade her, but for now she still holds information that puts her in danger. I’d like to be a little further away from Moriarty’s suicide. Perhaps you would consider having her join MI6.”

“No.” Sherlock said firmly.

“Still, I am curious, Sherlock. Why her? She’s so ordinary and plain. Hardly seems your type but then you’ve never had a type before.”

“No, Mycroft. She’s extraordinary. You understand extraordinary. That’s why you keep Anthea.”

“Who?” he asked.

“Well, that’s what she told John her name was. I’ve never known any different. The one who works for you. The one who was temporarily my wife.”

“Ah. Andrea Templeton.”

“Was she in on it too? Did she know the Moriarty case was all a ruse?”

“No. It was a real assignment to her, and I’d like her to keep believing that.” He mused on her for a moment. “She’s getting married. The fiancé checks out. An orthodontist from Newington Green. Ordinary fellow, though. Why do the brilliant surround themselves with the ordinary? I shall never understand it.”

“You’ll be looking for her replacement, then?”

“She’s not leaving MI6.”

“It's the beginning of a new era, Mycroft.”

“Nonsense. Nothing will change.”

“Breaks your heart a bit, doesn’t it?” Sherlock pressed, and Mycroft pursed his lips. He’d said nearly the same thing to Sherlock at John’s wedding reception.

“Nothing will change, Sherlock.”

“Things are changing, Mycroft. The wheels have turned and finally there is something fresh. Welcome to your new reality.” Sherlock said. He turned on his heels and started the long walk out of the cavernous warehouse, every step echoing sharply.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Mycroft asked. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock simply waved him off and continued walking. He lit a cigarette and took a long draw, but as he released the smoke from his lungs, he looked at the cigarette and dropped it onto the cement floor and extinguished it with the toe of his shoe. Yes, things were going to change. One of those things was the smoking. It was time to try to quit again.

***

Sherlock returned to 221B Baker Street. He hung his coat and scarf just outside the door, then walked in, but he stopped and turned back to his coat and fished the microchip out of his inner coat pocket and took it into the kitchen. He opened a drawer by the sink and pulled out a hammer. No, not good enough. He went into his bedroom and came out a few moments later with a sledge hammer. He took it and the chip and quickly made his way out of the apartment and down the stairs.

Sherlock opened Mrs. Hudson’s apartment door just as if he lived there, and he walked through her kitchen to the small back courtyard where she kept her trash bins. There was a short paved path to the back gate, and he set the chip in the center of one of that stones and brought the sledge hammer down with a terrible crash, instantly obliterating the chip and also cracking the stone. One strike was not enough to calm his anger and frustration, however, and he continued to strike the chip, even as the shockwaves of impact rattled his bones and pained his injured body. His later strikes were punctuated with growls and cries of frustration.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice brought him out of his mania, and he stood back, breathless with sweat running in fast little rivulets down his face. Even his shirt was soaked. He was spent, and he braced his aching right side.

He looked down at the stone. There were no more traces of the chip. It had been ground and smashed into nothingness, and the stone was cracked in many places.

“What on earth happened to your hands? And what have you done to my pathway, young man?” she asked.

“Never did like that stone.” He said simply as he walked past her and into her apartment. She turned and followed him.

“Sherlock, what is going on? What was all that about? And what on earth has happened to you?” she asked. “And give me that thing before you really hurt something.” She took the sledgehammer from him.

He was still a little out of breath, but he turned and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll pay for the repairs. Put it on my rent.”

He left her apartment and went back to his, and he went straight to the shower. He turned it on as hot as he could stand it, then stripped down and got in. It was not about bathing, however. He stood there in the hot water as if he could wash off the past six months of the case. As his body adjusted to the temperature of the water, he turned it hotter. He did not just want to wash it off but to burn off the last six months. The heat seared into his fresh wounds and it was all he could do to control himself from screaming from the pain. Nevertheless he adjusted the temperature several times until it was nearly scalding and until he was gritting his teeth to stay in it. And he stayed in it, mentally challenging his body not to give in to the heat, not to feel the burn. The bathroom became full of thick steam like a dense London fog, and when he finally felt his mind relax, he shut off the water and groaned with relief. His skin was fiery pink all over, and steam rose off of him even on that summer day in London.

He made himself some tea. He was suddenly ravenously hungry, a sensation he rarely experienced, and he looked through his refrigerator. Nothing, but that was not surprising. He quickly rifled through his cabinets and still could not find so much as a biscuit. He picked up his cell phone.

I’M HUNGRY. LET’S HAVE DINNER. SH

He waited in the corner of Speedy’s. He fidgeted, adjusting his tie and collar. He checked his watch, then his cell phone. A waiter lit the candle on the table, and Sherlock acknowledged it with a nod of thanks. Candles were not Speedy’s usual table décor.

He should have picked her up personally. Yes, he should have. He was new to this game, and he had sent a taxi for her. He scolded himself for being so inexperienced, for not having studied better on the social etiquette. He should have called Mary. Or John. No, Mary would have had the better answer. No, that would have only made him seem more inept. No, he would figure this out on his own, mistakes and all. Mind racing. Must stop. He closed his eyes and remembered the scalding shower, and instantly his skin pinked darker.

“You all right?” the sweet voice brought him out of his mind palace. “You’re all flushed.”

He quickly stood up and looked at his date. Molly Hooper. She was dressed prettily but he did not remark on it. She immediately gasped. “Sherlock! Your face! Your hands!”

“Bit of a brawl, nothing more.” He said dismissively.

But she understood immediately. “Did you catch him?”

He nodded and winked, then leaned slightly forward and kissed her cheek, which surprised her. He had never shown her any spontaneous display of affection in public before. “Molly, about somewhere in time…”

“It’s all right. I figured you were on a case and couldn't get away.” She gently touched his cheek and whispered, “I’ve missed you, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Wake up with me in the morning, Molly Hooper. My place this time. Seeing as it is next door.” He responded quietly.

“A night in the inner sanctum? The last fortification of your private life?”

“You are my private life.” He smiled.

After their meal he took her next door to 221B and he played his violin for her although it was a painful affair with his swollen, bruised and battered hands. He then showed her how to hold it, how to bow, and she made a few squawking sounds that made them both flinch and laugh. He felt immensely pressured to be the constant entertainment. This was a date. An actual date. Spending the night at her apartment many times did not amount to a single date. Being sexually intimate with her was not a date. No, they had never had a true date. He’d seen John go on many dates, and John had always seemed calm about the process, but Sherlock was not. Dinner was fine. Anyone can eat dinner, and they had talked a lot about the current cases that had come into the morgue. They could both discuss the most disturbing autopsies and never flinch while eating, although other guests at Speedy’s shot them a few nasty glares.

But now, here he was in his own apartment with her, and he was out of his depth. He was speaking so rapidly that she almost could not keep up, and he was nearly bouncing off the walls. She finally stood up and very gently put her arms around him to still him, and he grimaced, catching his breath in discomfort. “Sherlock, this is your space, your work, where you think, where you meet your clients. Maybe I’ll never sleep with you here, and I’m okay with that. On the other hand, your toothbrush is already at my flat.”

“Bless you, but maybe I was too ambitious earlier. Maybe we could just do the hot water bottle tonight?” he asked.

She touched his cheek gently. “Tell me what you need.”

They spent the night together at her flat but did not make love. Instead she tended to his wounds, made him comfortable, and simply let him rest. He remained off-grid in her tender care for one week.

His inner sanctum would remain his sacred ground for now, but he did hope that someday his own OCD would allow Molly to stay the night with him in his bed.


	17. Chapter 17

_“Never love anyone who treats you like you're ordinary” - Oscar Wilde._

Two weeks passed from the time that Trenglman had been apprehended. Sherlock’s external wounds had mostly healed, but his internal bruising still ached at times with the wrong movement. He did not know what had become of Trenglman but was assured he was in extremely secure custody. MI6 had ways of dealing with their own that sometimes violated human rights issues including the Geneva Convention, and no one within MI6 questioned the tactics. Even Irene Adler had been threatened with unpleasant procedures to extract information. MI6 lived by its own code, and Sherlock was now all too aware that he was not above their unwritten code. He had had six months of their discipline and was told he got off lightly. He did not want to know what he would have done to deserve something worse, but his time of being tortured by the Serbians made him not want to find out either. He did not want Irene Adler’s words to Mycroft, “your biggest security leak is your own little brother,” to ever haunt him again, because the first time it was true he had manage to solve the puzzle and save himself, but the second time the outcome was disastrous. He was committed to there never being a third time.

He still faced another kind of reckoning: he had not seen his parents since the incident at Christmas. Partly it had been due to his obsession with the Moriarty case, but it was also due to the fact that he knew there would be a day of confrontation over the incident at Christmas when he had drugged them before that fatal altercation at Appledor with Magnussen, and he was not looking forward to that domestic row. It had been several months, and it was well into summer, and the time had come to see them.

There was another reckoning he needed to make with them, however, and that was his relationship with Molly. He had never brought a girlfriend to meet his parents. They had never known him to have any interest in dating at all and had long ago resigned themselves to the fact that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft would ever give them grandchildren. They entirely gave up hope on Mycroft, but his mother still held a small bit of hope for Sherlock although the hope dimmed a little each passing year, and it simply was not a relevant topic to bring up in any discussion.

“Molly,” he said a little nervously as they worked together on several tests in Barts’ labs, “how would you like to meet my parents?”

“I met your parents when you were in hospital with the gunshot wound, remember? They’re lovely.” she said.

“Yes but I mean meet them. As a…couple.” He said. The word “couple” did not trip off his tongue easily but it nevertheless managed to escape, and now it was out in the open with her.

“Are you sure?” she asked. Aside from John and Mary knowing, it was actually the first time that he was willing to go slightly public with his relationship with her. The veil of secrecy was lifting a little more.

He smiled a little and gave her a wink. “I think it’s time.”

She blushed a little. “So does that make me your—“

“Girlfriend.” He finished her sentence. It was a word he’d never spoken of anyone in his life before and she knew it.

“Boyfriend.” She smiled. He saw a sparkle in her eyes that he had not seen for months. He loved that sparkle and he had missed it. “I accept. When shall we go?”

“This weekend.”

He hoped Molly would be a buffer to his day of reckoning. Surely there would not be shouting and angry words in front of Molly, he thought. She knew nothing about the Christmas incident at the Holmes manor or Magnussen, and he never planned to tell her, but some of it would come out. Still, her presence would soften the verbal blows he knew he was destined to rightfully receive.

He picked her up in a rented luxury, slightly sporty car, and they made their way out of London into the green countryside of Devon. Two gift wrapped boxes sat in the back seat. “What’s in the boxes?” Molly asked.

“Perfume for Mum and sweeties for Dad.” He said simply. “I owe them an apology.”

“For what?”

“Little incident at Christmas. Suffice it to say I was a bit naughty.”

She thought about it for a moment then turned to him. “Sherlock Holmes, if you only invited me to your parents’ house to be a buffer, you can turn this car around right now.”

“Only a little. They’ll forgive me. They always do,” he admitted. “But really, I think it’s time for them to know about us.”

He pulled up into the driveway of the red brick house and he took Molly’s hand as he approached the front door. “Into battle,” he muttered.

Mrs. Holmes met them at the door even before he had a chance to open it. She greeted Molly with open arms and kisses to the cheeks, then gave Sherlock a kiss on the cheek followed by a firm pat. “You and I will talk later, young man.”

Sherlock would sleep in his old room which remained mostly untouched since he’d moved away from home, but Molly would sleep in Mycroft’s old room which had been converted into an art studio. “If you’re not married, you may not sleep in the same bed while under my roof,” she said firmly, “not that the situation has ever come up before. I expect you both to comply with my house rules.”

“Of course.” Molly assured her.

“So you are sleeping together. Thank you for confirming that.” She said simply.

“Perhaps you would also like us to have a chaperone?” Sherlock quipped.

“Don’t get smart with me, Sherlock.” His mother responded. “You and I have enough to deal with.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Just off on some errands. He’ll be back soon enough.” She sighed tersely. “So, shall we do this now or later, Sherlock?”

“Do what?”

“You know what.” His mother said sternly. “Let’s just get this over with and we can all enjoy the rest of the weekend.” Mother Holmes said. She looked at Molly and smiled kindly, but there was a sternness about her that Molly sensed immediately. “Molly dear, perhaps you would like to take a walk. There are some new lambs in the paddock across the road.”

Molly knew instantly that was not a suggestion but a command, and she got up, grabbed her jacket, and walked out.

“Sherlock. Now.” Mother Holmes sternly as she pointed to her bedroom.

Sherlock’s jaw tightened, but he knew the day of reckoning had come with his mother for the drugging at Christmas, and he dutifully went to her bedroom. She followed close behind and as soon as they were alone in the room she shut the door behind them. “Sherlock, I am terribly disappointed in your behavior at Christmas. The way you deceived us all, drugged us.”

He would not quite meet her gaze.

“William, look at me when I am speaking to you.” She instead firmly, and he finally did but mostly because she had called him by his true first name, something she only did when he was in serious trouble. He had always had difficulty with eye contact with his parents, most especially his mother. It was something he’d slightly grown out of but there was a bit of autism that remained from his early childhood. As a young child he had not made eye contact at all, and it was only with intensive daily therapy that he finally began to make connection with the outside world.

“Sorry, mummy.” He said contritely.

“Not good enough. Not good enough.” She took a moment, then summed up her entire steely resolve to deal with her adult son. “Not good enough.”

Across the road, there was indeed a lovely paddock with several sheep including some new lambs. She loved animals, especially young ones, but she’d never been so close to a lamb. She smiled as a lamb suckled, but she looked back at the house and strained to hear any argument. She was not quite certain why she had been asked to leave, but after several minutes she saw Sherlock walk out of the house. When he reached her, he would not make eye contact.  If there was ever a time he wanted a cigarette, this was one of them, but he was determined to try to quit. 

“What happened?” she asked and then clarified, “Just now.”

He wasn’t certain where to begin. “Suffice it to say that my behavior in question from the past Christmas was rather appalling. I’m not entirely certain how she manages to expose my sins and make me feel like an errant child.”

“Mothers have a way of doing that.” She was quiet for a moment and then asked, “Did you learn your lesson? And don’t give me a smart ass answer.”

“Learned my lesson?” He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. “It wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, the part that mum took issue with.”

“But did you learn your lesson?”

“What are you going on about?” He said tersely.

“Did you understand that what you did was wrong and do you feel regret for that wrong so that you will never wrong someone again by repeating it?” she asked.

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “I am who I am.”

“Yes, you are. That’s the problem.” She groaned and turned and began to walk back to the house.

“Molly wait!” he called, and she stopped and turned to face him. “It was wrong. I know it was wrong. I shouldn’t have done it. It was stupid, stupid, stupid, and I won’t ever come up with a stupid idea like that again. Promise.”

“Now, go inside and tell it like that to your mother.” She said. When he rolled his eyes she said sternly, “Do it.”

He sighed deeply, then took her hand and walked back to the house. His mother was in the kitchen washing up when he came in. Molly took a step back. “Mummy,” he said. “I may not have been entirely complete in my apology before.” He cleared his throat and shuffled a bit.

“No, I don't think you were.” She said sternly.

He looked directly at her. “Mummy, I regret the poor choice I made, and I want you to know that you have my assurance that nothing even remotely similar will ever happen again. I am sorry my behavior has disappointed you. It has disappointed me also. I am capable of better than that, and you deserve better than that from me. I am truly sorry.”  

His mother’s eyes brimmed with tears.  She put her hands on his cheeks and maintained eye contact. “There it is. That sparkle. That brilliance of a soul. Hold onto it, Sherlock, and let it be the compass for your heart.”  He tried to look away. He did not want a discussion with her about his heart, but she brought him back into eye contact when she said his name. “Sherlock. Today I see the man I always hoped I’d see, and you have made me so very proud.” She kissed his cheek tenderly and he allowed it, then returned the kiss to her cheek. It was not often that he gave a public display of affection towards her, and Molly’s presence made it public. “Now take off your coat and set the table for tea. Father will be home from market soon, and he’ll be ready to eat.”

“We don’t have to say anything to him about what happened, do we?” Sherlock asked.

“It was his idea.” She said nonchalantly, “He was going to do the yelling, but I sent him to market because I knew you could talk him into a game of chess instead.”

***

Molly sat out in the back garden with Sherlock’s mother that evening, and they had tea and biscuits as hummingbirds sipped from the feeders that hung from the nearby tree. “I’m so delighted to have you here, Molly. I’ve always liked you, especially because of all you did for my son in helping him fake his death way back when.”

“Oh that’s lovely of you to say that,” Molly said. “I’ve thought highly of you as well.”

“I suppose you have questions about his childhood and all, but he’d be terribly put out with me for talking about it.”

“But he is a genius. Both your boys are.”

“Well, in some areas, yes, but with Sherlock, it’s not like he was skipping grades and graduating university when he was twelve. No, no. He was always at grade level with his peers, so not that kind of a genius. He’s more of a savant in a very specialized area. But he worked very hard and always did well in school. Always at the top of his class, always winning the top prizes in the science fairs at school. He excelled in all his subjects, but not supernaturally so. “

Molly sipped her tea and said quietly, “And the autism? Or Asbergers.”

Mrs. Holmes sighed in acknowledgement. “Never officially diagnosed, but something happened. Started when he was about two. Before that he was reading by himself and holding quite a good conversation. Then one day he just shut down, wouldn’t communicate, wouldn’t make eye contact. Didn’t want to be touched, didn’t like certain food textures or fabric textures. Couldn’t ever put a wool blanket on his bed. He still can’t tolerate it next to his skin. He had a lot of meltdowns. I quit my Mathematics chair at University to stay home with him. We worked with him constantly to get him back into our world, but although he came back mostly, he’s always found it hard to make emotional attachments. So he’s built an entire aloof persona on who he thinks he is based on his comfort level, but I know it’s only an elaborate façade for protection. Out of all that, however, blossomed an extraordinary gift of observation and cohesive thinking. And such a photographic memory!”

“What do you think caused it?”

“I suspect it’s chemical. We spent years with him on a detoxing diet. We were doing organic before it was fashionable. Absolutely no fast food or junk food. He resented us terribly for it, but it helped. I think if he had a choice he would eat nothing but fish and chips or tomato pasta for the rest of his life. He definitely abandoned the organic diet at university, but at least he was out of the danger zone then. I still worry about his diet. Try to get something green down him now and then.”

Sherlock stepped through the door onto the patio. “Mummy, you’re not being indiscreet, are you?”

“Sherlock, dear, could you see what your father is up to? He talked of trimming the low branches of the trees out front with a chainsaw. Do be a dear and disable it or something before he hurts himself.” She said with a simple wave of her hand, and Sherlock squinted suspiciously at this mother, then turned and went back into to the house. She turned her attention back to Molly. “And how long have you and Sherlock been keeping your secret?”

Molly startled. There were a lot of secrets and she was not certain which one was being referred to. “Secret?”

“Your relationship.”

“Since January, but it’s been a bit on and off.” She said quietly.

“I’m glad it’s on again. He’s never brought anyone home before.” Mrs. Holmes said simply.

“Never?”

“Never brought a single friend home. Not even certain he ever had a friend outside of his brother. Both he and Mycroft have always been a bit embarrassed by us. Thinking we’re so slow and don’t know what’s going on.” She winked at Molly. “But we were always one step ahead. We had to be.”

“But never?”

“Not even after Mycroft left for university. Sherlock was only ten years old then. Even though they were always at odds, and Mycroft could be something of a bully, I think he missed his brother terribly, and that’s when we got him the dog, Redbeard. Oh he loved that dog almost more than life itself. Heartbroken when we had to put him down just two years later. Congestive heart failure. We just told him that Redbeard had run away. Sherlock searched and searched for him, put up fliers all over the village. He led a very thorough investigation, probably his first ‘case’ if you will. We had to go to all the local RSPCAs with him to look at the impounds. We offered to get him another dog, but he only wanted Redbeard to return. He was very connected to that dog. He was certain he would solve the mystery. And then there was that dreadful thing with that Irish Setter that was skinned alive.”

Sherlock listened from the other side of the wall. He flinched from the painful memory. Some doors in his mind palace were kept locked in order to suppress unpleasant memories, but his mother’s words had unlocked the bank-vaulted door of that memory.

Sherlock startled to feel his father’s hand on his chest. “You all right, son?”

Sherlock took a deep breath and nodded.

“Fancy a game of chess?” his father asked.

“I always win.” Sherlock said.

“I always let you win.” His father responded with a wink.

Sherlock smiled a little. “In a bit, Dad.” His father started to walk away, and Sherlock struggled for words. “Dad.”

His father turned back. “Yes, son?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Just thank you.” That was as close as Sherlock could get to an apology at the moment.

His father smiled knowingly and then winked again. Forgiveness and understanding had always been there. “I’ll set up the board. You come in when you’re ready.”

Molly tried to absorb the details of Sherlock’s younger life. She wished she’d known him then because she was certain she would have tried to be his friend.

“Awful. Awful.” Tears came to his mother’s eyes at the remembrance of that night. “We showed Sherlock the death certificate from the veterinarian, but even so, I’m not certain he ever entirely believed us which I totally understand. We have Redbeard’s ashes in an urn in the attic. He was certain then that they were fake ashes. He has always refused to look at it.”

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth to begin with?”

“Honestly, we didn’t think he could emotionally handle the death. He still had occasional meltdowns, but in retrospect we should have just been forthcoming. Sherlock felt rightfully betrayed. He didn’t forgive us or trust us for a long time, especially after we’d let him carry on looking for a dog that didn’t exist anymore. Mycroft told him that he couldn’t solve the mystery because he’d let his emotions blind him to the truth. Imagine telling that to a grieving adolescent.” She sipped her tea and then added, “Sherlock was never terribly demonstrative, part of the autism symptoms. Didn’t like to be touched. Redbeard helped him to open up. He really loved that dog and would give and receive affection from him. Redbeard slept next to him on his bed every night like a guardian angel. After Redbeard died, he closed himself off again and didn’t really want much human connection. He was already fairly ostracized at school for his genius abilities, and I think he just took his brother’s words too much to heart. He’s been on a quest for truth ever since. He absolutely abhors lying.”

“You have that gift of observation too, don’t you?” Molly asked.

“Everyone has powers of observation,” she responded dismissively. “I know that you love my son very much, and I can see that he loves you.” Molly looked up at that. “Oh, I and I can see he hasn’t said the words. Typical. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t. And I can see there’s a deep sadness in you, quite recent in fact. Has he been beastly to you?”

“No!” Molly assured her. “No. Promise.”

“You’ve recently lost someone dear to you, haven’t you?”

Tears suddenly came to Molly’s eyes, and Molly immediately looked away. The wound of loss was still fresh and painful. Mrs. Holmes reached across the small table and gripped Molly’s hand. “Oh, I’m so sorry to upset you, my dear. So sorry. Here we were having such a lovely chat and I’ve been a completely insensitive dolt.”

“No,” Molly assured her. She fought for the right words, not sure if she should speak them at all. “Sherlock and I…Sherlock and I..I lost our little boy.” Her tears spilled. “He was born too premature at twenty weeks.”

“Oh dear Molly, I am so sorry,” she said gently.

“I have pictures.” Molly pulled out her phone and flipped through her pictures, and she handed her phone across the table.

Mrs. Holmes scrolled through the images slowly, tears in her own eyes. “What a perfect little angel. So small and yet even so tiny, I can see some resemblance to Sherlock.”

“He’s buried in Hampstead Cemetery. If you ever want to visit. The marker has my name on it.”

“No,” Sherlock’s authoritative voice came from the doorway as he stepped out onto the patio. “I had it replaced. My son’s marker bears my last name. Our son’s marker, I mean. Our son.” Molly looked up at him and he returned her gaze. It was the first time she’d ever heard him take any ownership of the event. “Our son.” He pulled up a chair next to Molly, sat down and took her hand. “Our son,” he said again.

“Did you give him a name?” Mrs. Holmes asked.

Sherlock and Molly exchanged a glance, and they both shook their heads.

“Every born child deserves a name, no matter how small.” She said firmly. “So, should I be expecting another one?”

“Mother, please.” Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I never did have the sex talk with you, Sherlock. You never seemed like you needed to hear it, but apparently I was wrong.”

Sherlock groaned. “Mother, please stop. Just stop.” This was excruciating, and he was actually blushing a little which Molly found endearing.

Mrs. Holmes winked at Molly. She was teasing Sherlock a bit, watching him squirm, and she was enjoying it, but she became quite serious again. “You two. I want to know the name of my first grandchild before I go to bed tonight, and then the first chance you get, you are to change that grave marker to reflect it.” She stood up then. “I’ll just see what father is up to.” She walked back into the house.

Sherlock looked at Molly. She had tears in her eyes. “You know his name, don’t you?”

She nodded. “Ewan Oliver after my dad. Ewan Oliver Sherlock Holmes.”

“And if it had been a girl?” he asked.

“I knew in my heart that it was a boy. I always knew.” She said.

He squeezed her hand gently. “Ewan Oliver is a fine name for our son.”

***

Sherlock tried to sleep, but he was as wide awake as if he’d had an entire pot of strong coffee, and there was simply no sleeping. Partly his lack of sleep was due to the satin pajama set he was wearing. He never wore pajamas as he found them restricting, but he’d brought a new set just to please his mother. However, he had failed to wash them first, and they were slightly stiff and scratchy, especially the manufacturer’s tag at the back of his neck. He stared at the darkened ceiling of his room, and he looked towards the door of his bedroom. After a moment he got up quietly and walked out, careful not to make any noise. He walked across the hallway and gently opened the door to Mycroft’s old room. Molly was sleeping on the lilo.

“Molly,” he whispered as he gently touched her shoulder.

She stirred, not quite deeply asleep either. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t sleep.” He said.

“Nightmares?” she asked. “Do you need a hot water bottle?”

“No. I need you.” He replied. “I need you beside me.”

“You know you can’t share a bed with me. Your mother’s rules.” Molly said.

“I’m not asking for sex,” he said. “I have a plan.” He held out his hand and she groaned a little. One of his plans. This could be trouble. Nevertheless she sat up and took his hand. She was also wearing a set of pajamas, but hers had cute little kittens on them. He led her quietly downstairs into the living room.

There was a steady rain outside and a slight chill, and he built a fire in the hearth, a fire that became their only light. He then led her to his father’s well-worn, squishy but comfortable reclining chair. He sat down in the chair and pulled Molly down next to his injured side, then pulled a quilt over them. Two of them in the chair made it a tight squeeze, but it was not uncomfortable. He reclined the chair, then put his arm around her and pulled her in even closer. “You see? I’m not breaking her rules. Just flexing them a little.”

“You just wanted a cuddle.” She smiled softly.

He murmured his agreement and kissed the top of her head. Then he looked at her, really looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, as if he’d had a fog around her all the time. He had always thought she was pretty enough, but suddenly without any change she seemed beautiful. Why hadn’t he seen that before? Why hadn’t it meant anything before? How had he been blind to her? Even with all the months they had been together, he hadn’t seen her, not really seen her.

She could see there was something different going on behind his eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked softly.

He smiled a little and shook his head. “Everything’s perfect. I love you, Molly Hooper.”

“What?”

“I. Love. You. I _love_ you. I love _you_. _I love you_.” The words came out easier than he had thought they would. Why had he ever had such a hard time saying them? “It’s you. It’s always been you. The one that I love.”

She swallowed hard, her heart beating so fast she thought she couldn’t breathe for a moment. When she tried to speak, he put a finger to her lips and said, “Don’t say it. You’ve said it and proven it enough for a lifetime, and now it’s my turn to say it and prove it for the rest of our lives.”

“You want us to be together for the rest of our lives?” she asked incredulously.

“I said something wrong?” he asked.

“No. You just proposed.” she said.

“No!” He said quickly. “Did I? Maybe. Yes, I think I did.”

“Yes, I think you did.” She smiled. “Remind me to have your mother take you to task more often if this is the kind of result it gets.”

He sat them up again, then fished into his pajama shirt pocket for something. He pulled out a ring. “Mum has been saving this for me all these years. Another reason why we came out here. This was my grandmother’s ring. Well, partly. I had the center stone replaced. Won that stone in a little card game while undercover in Russia.” He slid it onto her finger. “I don’t think our son should be the only one to carry my name, do you?”

“No.” she said.

They kissed sweetly and she settled against his chest as he reclined the chair again. He looked at the ring on her finger and added, “Even though I can find it difficult to be around my parents, this house is your bolt hole. It is perhaps the safest place in all Britain. Mycroft has it under surveillance at all times. If I ever ask you to come here, know it is only because there is imminent danger to you, to me, or to England. Will you promise never to question me if I ask you to come here?”

“I promise.” She assured him. “What will be our code?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Pirate. You won’t forget?”

“Never.” She assured him. “I like the cloak and dagger with you. It’s fun.”

“Molly, although I put Mycroft off at every opportunity to be involved in government work, it is part of who I am, and there may be times when I must go undercover, just as I did for two years after Moriarty died. If my country really needs me, then I will oblige. I won’t be able to share the details of that part of my life with you. Ever.”

“Then we need a new code for that. Just so I know.”

“All right.” He agreed.

“But if your brother tries to send you away for two years again, I shall personally kick his arse from John O’Groats to Lands End. I’ll tell him that too.”

That thought made Sherlock chuckle and he pulled her in closer. “Never change, Molly Hooper.”

They slept together on the reclining chair under a large quilt, her head on his chest. This is how his parents found them in the early morning while the last of the embers from the fire still gave little flickers of life. His mother didn’t suspect anything improper had occurred during the night, but by the way they were sleeping, she knew that their bond was very deep and strong. The fact that they had chosen to sleep together in the living room meant that they were determined to technically not break her house rules. All they were doing was sleeping, and they were sleeping where anyone could see them. In fact, they were sleeping very deeply, very peacefully. She saw the ring on Molly’s finger.

His parents quietly made breakfast in the kitchen.

“But I want bacon and my coffee.” His father protested.

“No you don’t. The smell will wake them up.” His mother insisted as she set a bowl of dry cereal and a pitcher of milk by his plate.

“How long do you think they’ll be in my chair? It’s where I read the morning paper.”

“Oh hush. You can read your paper just fine in here.”

“I can’t watch the telly in here.” He groused.

She sat down at the table with him and rested her hand on his arm. “Molly is going to be joining our family, and that’s far more important than your telly.”

“I saw the ring too.” He said. “Now don’t go asking them to set a date. Knowing Sherlock he’ll just walk through the door with her and announce they’re already married. We have to let him do this his way.”

“I’m staying completely out of it.” She insisted. “I just want him to be happy. He looks so contented when he’s with her. She calms him but she stands up to him. She’s good for him.”

“But is he good for her, though?” he asked. “We know how he is.”

It wasn’t a question she could easily answer, but she said, “I think they’re good for each other.”

“And don’t go asking about grandchildren.”

“Too late for that,” she said and then she added, “but at least I have reasonable expectation now that we might have some. And when you’re finished with your breakfast, I thought we might take a drive down to Hampstead Cemetery. There’s something we need to see.”

***

Sherlock stood alone in the empty field within view of his parent’s house. A stiff breeze blew open his coat, billowing it around him. This was the field where he and Redbeard had played when he was younger. Playing fetch, catching Frisbees or sticks. The dog would happily retrieve anything young Sherlock had thrown. Sometimes Redbeard would knock Sherlock down and coat his face with licks, and sometimes they lay in the grass together with Sherlock’s head using Redbeard for a pillow as he watched the movements of the clouds above. He had taught Redbeard basic commands and was certain that Redbeard was probably the smartest dog in all of England, maybe in the whole world, but that’s what young boys always believed of their beloved canine companions.

He reached down and picked up Redbeard’s urn which had been sitting on the ground at his feet. He broke the seal on the lid and with a little extra effort opened the urn which had been sealed for over twenty-five years. He looked inside at the ashes. Laying on top of the ashes and wound up tightly were Redbeard’s old collar and tags. He realized instantly that had he ever looked inside the urn as a child, all his doubts and anguish over Redbeard’s true fate would have been assuaged. He pulled out the collar and tags and looked at them thoughtfully before tucking them into his pocket. He poured some of the ashes into his hand and let the wind rip it from him in a swirling dust cloud, and then he tossed the remaining ashes into the air to be dispersed in the field where he and Redbeard had shared so many happy memories.

There were no tears, only a sense of relief as he let go of one painful wound from his past. It was done.

***

While his parents journeyed to Hampstead Cemetery, Sherlock took Molly out for a late breakfast in the local town where they had a pleasant meal and chatted like two young lovers who had known each other their entire lives. Afterwards they walked with hands entwined down the pavement that was slightly damp from the previous night’s rain. He was completely familiar with every winding street and signage as it was where he had grown up, and he indulged her curiosity and questions about the area and what he remembered from his boyhood until something across the street caught his eye--something in the window dressing of a small shop: a pink striped ball just like the one he had seen in the park that day with John. Or thought he had seen. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” He said as he suddenly bolted across the street and into the shop.

He returned within a couple of minutes with the ball tucked under his arm.

“What’s that for?” She was truly puzzled.

He took her hand again and smiled. “New beginnings.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next book in the series is THE BLACKBIRD AND THE SPARROW'S NEST. Enjoy!


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